Nonlinear Hyperbole
by Karmic Acumen
Summary: Hellmouthiness was supposed to be at its lowest on Halloween, and Xander figured he might even have found a way to enjoy Herr Snyder's "request" that he and his friends take the kids out for candy bagging. So, naturally, he managed to geek his way so far into the surreal that he made history. Literally.
1. Prologue: Home Sweet Hell

**A/N:** Originally I was going to update one of my other stories, but then I just had to get this out of my system first.

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**Nonlinear Hyperbole**

**Prologue: Home Sweet Hell**

"-. .-"

Sunnydale, California. Dream coastal town by day, everlasting horror show by night. Or that was what she might have pretended it was like until two months prior, drama and all. Back then, before Halloween 1997, she would sometimes let her imagination run amok in her head, complete with a narrator saying "Stay tuned for the latest episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. No reruns or your money back!" Well, that last part was something that her Xander-shaped friend would have said, if he were still around.

But he wasn't, was he? That was the whole point of her nighttime walk.

She wasn't quite sure when it became a weekly ritual, to visit his grave at midnight on every Sunday, half-through her patrol. It was like she deliberately wanted to put herself down at the very start of each new week, for around an hour each time. It wouldn't be the first time she was accused of deliberately engineering the drama in her life. Then again, maybe the whole point was to remind herself of all the times Xander had lightened up her day with quick, perfect jokes or goofy smiles? If that was it, she must have been ignoring that part of her subconscious that always tried to steer her in the right direction.

Again.

A long time to keep missing the point really, considering that the New Year had already come and gone and she was only now experiencing this epiphany. And Giles had been trying to persuade her to start thinking that way too. It made her feel like she'd been enforcing the bleached blonde airhead stereotype, and there was no Xander around to dismiss the thought in his trademark fashion. Not that she'd ever admit it out loud, but still…

She shook her head and leaned back to avoid a fledgling's attempt to brain her from the side. Two minutes and three dust piles later, Buffy Anne Summers pursed her lips in annoyance and started to brush herself off. She was losing her edge if it took her that long to take out three newbies. And it wasn't like she'd been given the chance to slack off, what with Ford's attempt to feed her to Spike and the attempts on her life by the Order of Taraka, plus the whole Ted the Android story. Not to mention the demonic egg parasites that almost took over the school just that week.

She'd had to splatter the bezoar queen apart from within with a pickaxe in the end. That had _not_ been fun. The idea alone was bad enough, and then the slime… she'd _liked_ those shoes. And the jacket! And the slime got into her hair which meant that she'd be taking showers and scrubbing her scalp raw twice as often for a good damn while. Which would be murder on her hair color and probably force her hair to grow faster too, given her history. Everyone would be able to tell she wasn't a natural blonde just from a look. Her traitorous roots would ensure it!

She stopped mid-step and blinked repeatedly, realizing what sort of tangent her thoughts had strayed on. Dammit! And she was supposed to be Buffy Anne Summers, The Vampire Slayer. The Chosen One. Ha! They really should make a comedy horror reality show out of it.

The part of her subconscious not taken up by the Slayer instincts must have been trying to imitate her no-longer-here-and-there Xander-shaped friend. To make up for his no-longer-here-and-there-ness. Maybe. The Slayer let her head drop as she sighed. It was either that or bursting into sniffles, which would at least still be a few levels below the episodes Willow kept having on and off every other day. And when they happened, she was inconsolable for at least an hour. Thank God for Oz.

Buffy had gone on a self-imposed guilt trip for a while, beating herself up for letting her friend be killed. For a long time she'd been living with the fear that having involved her friends in the slaying would get them killed. But when the fatality finally happened, it turned out not to be because of that at all. On the other hand, it _had_ been due to supernatural crap, which should have put paid to all other arguments, but it turned out it didn't. Giles, Angel and even freaking Willow – Willow, who had more reason to blame her than anyone else – ganged up on her, got on her case for how it really hadn't been her fault this time. They made her put aside her whole Slayer-ness, the entire Chosen one thing, they even told her to envision Halloween night as if she had never revealed anything, or even never made friends with Xander and Willow. That even if Willow and Xander had never been part of the Slaying, that troll Snyder would have been on their case anyway, and would have conscripted them to play tour guide for the kids regardless of her involvement.

Even now she sometimes felt the outrage bubble in the depth of her throat, like bile. Those moments were the ones she hated the most. The thought that she should have been able to do something, because she should be able to do anything. But even that phase never lasted long. Pride, that's all it was.

Buffy stopped at the gate of the cemetery and leaned back-first against the cement post to gather herself.

Maybe someday, she could finally accept that she would have been unable to do anything about that night, even if she'd bought a costume other than that of little lady useless. Even as a full Slayer she had no clue what she could possibly have done when the skies split apart, literally tore like a brutalized piece of canvas. The chaos spell had been designed to cause all Ethan's customers to be possessed by their costumes, and it worked just fine... for like five minutes. Enough for Lady Elizabeth to fall on her butt and scuttle away from the "demons" rushing up and down the street.

That was when the sky literally tore open. Buffy doubted she'd ever forget the sheer, gut-clenching horror of seeing the rift in reality, large enough to split the night sky in half. Even as herself, she would have probably stumbled and fallen at the sight alone, not to mention the noise of a billion death throes mixed with the cackle of rabid beasts. It was like an eye of terror had forced open its eyelids. An eye whose iris was actually a legion of devilish abominations clawing their way into this reality, shrieking, drooling…

Then a flash of white light exploded from behind them, from wherever the dimensional tear led. The mind-shattering effects of that mystical space-time warp were banished, replaced by a moment of serenity that lit up the night like a second sun. The abominations in the eye of terror were disintegrated, along with every vampire that happened to be out and about at the time, which unfortunately didn't include Spike but fortunately didn't include Angel either. Lady Elizabeth only had one moment longer to gaze at the bizarrely-terrifying-turned-magnificent vista, her perception stretched into a whole lifetime at the time. As the light calmed, she spotted a vaguely humanoid, white figure where the eye had been, his arms spread wide only so he could bring them together and wipe the dimensional tear behind him from existence with one, all-engulfing gesture.

The sky healed immediately afterwards and Sunnydale fell deathly quiet in the aftermath. Buffy's possession by the useless noblewoman faded once the last crack in reality closed over like it had never been.

Bedlam ruled the next hour as trick-or-treaters finally panicked, but Buffy and Willow were able to reunite the kids with their guides easily enough, since the possession had lasted such a short time. The first alarm blared in her mind when she found Willow and the two of them didn't immediately run into Xander. It wasn't until they finally came upon his unconscious, deathly pale form that they really freaked out. Willow more than her, but that was normal, and she'd still been banking on him being just passed out from the shock or maybe a hit to the head.

She should have known things wouldn't turn out so well on the Hellmouth, Sunnydale effect or not.

Xander was hospitalized and stayed locked in a coma for only a week before his bastard parents told the doctors to pull the plug. He was buried three days later, with almost zero attendance besides the Scoobies. Only his mother and Uncle Rory were in there on the family side. Buffy later learned that the perpetually-drinking Tony Harris had been too busy arranging the Harrises' departure from town to be bothered with his own son's funeral.

Buffy had been so livid that she'd almost gone after the bastard to give him a piece of her mind. Willow barely managed to talk her down, which was impressive considering that she looked like she was itching to do something even worse, whatever it was. Then she somehow started sobbing her eyes out and Buffy had to literally hold her up as she cried in her arms. The two of them eventually had a pity party no one managed to get them out of for a whole day, which led to a really weird situation where Cordelia, of all people, was the one who went over to the Harrises the morning of their departure and tore both of them a new one.

The three of them might have gone together if Buffy and Willow had bothered going through their depression even a few days prior. But during the week while Xander was still alive-ish they'd still been hoping to find some magical cure or something. Unfortunately, nothing they tried or researched worked, and they even got a witch from the London Coven to teleport over. The only thing that did was reveal that there was nothing to be done because Xander's soul was just gone. Well, that and the fact that, apparently, the astral plane was all wiggy now around the town. Even worse than the normal Helllmouthy wigginess.

The biggest irony was that the Hellmouth hadn't had much to do with the rift in the sky at all, as far as anyone could tell. At least not beyond Ethan using the normal energy bleed-off to fuel his chaos spell. The mage had been found dead in his shop next to a shattered bust of Janus. Guess Chaos really didn't play favorites. Fitting the creep should be one of the only three fatalities that resulted from that whole mess.

The third was the mayor, who was found headless in his office the morning after. Maybe he'd been dressed as the headless horseman or something.

Buffy Summers shook her head to clear it before finally stepping into the cemetery. Her thoughts were getting sidetracked again, which meant she damn well should get off her figurative butt and get on with what she'd come here to do.

The trail was one she was well used to by now. She kept her senses sharp but didn't go out of her way to hurry or scout the area too much. Willow had hacked the coroner's office records as usual, which let them know that no victims of gangs on PCP or barbecue fork accidents had been buried in this graveyard over the past three days. And she'd cleared the crypt recently, so she didn't expect any older company.

Ah, there it was, Xander's grave. Same old, soon to be grass-covered patch of dirt. It even had a headstone. Paid for by Giles from his own savings, since Xander's father would otherwise have gone for the cheapest wooden cross he could find. "Alexander Lavelle Harris, Beloved Son, Fearless Friend."

Buffy doubted the accuracy of the "beloved son" part, but she figured Giles must have been thinking of his own feelings on the matter instead of the biologicals'. Her Watcher had ordered the headstone behind everybody's backs because he felt guilty for being the only one to reap benefits from the entire Halloween mess, despite not having been directly targeted by the spell. Somehow, the Mark of Eyghon had disappeared - and hadn't _that_ been a tense discussion, with him revealing the truth of his Ripper days. On the upside it prompted Jenny Calendar to come clean about her real name and purpose in Sunnydale.

It had almost been enough to tear the gang apart, but the grief and uncertainty of just what had happened on Halloween had managed to push people together instead. They hadn't recovered yet, and they probably wouldn't ever be as upbeat as before, but they were pulling through. Angel may have been putting a bit too much pressure on their computer science teacher for her to find out what the curse escape clause was, but Buffy herself also wanted to know. Seeing as they had decided to put their… whatever it was on hold until they got the answer, she was pretty anxious to learn it herself.

The Slayer stuffed her hands in her leather jacket pockets as she walked the trail between grave rows. Yet another thing to tell Xander about tonight, the latest on a long list, as usual. She was almost there. Just a couple more rows and she would only have to make a right turn and her friend's grave would be just ahead. Quiet and covered in little blue flowers – Willow's work every Thursday afternoon when she had the last period free – and with a man in a white coat standing there in the middle of the night –

Buffy Summers stopped mid-step when her brain finally caught up with her train of thought. Very slowly, she pulled back, past the lone tree she'd just passed. A willow tree, ironically enough. Yep, the guy was still there. Either she'd been spacing out enough to miss the guy right in her field of view, or he really had only blinked into place as the tree trunk briefly hid the grave from her eyes while she passed by.

Standing completely still, Buffy checked her slay-dar without taking her eyes off the white-dressed whoever. No ping, no nada. Somehow, that only made things wiggier. The biggest wiggy in the long line of wigginess that was her life. Someone was standing at the foot of Xander's grave with hands in their pant pockets and just staring at the headstone. Someone who hadn't been there a second ago.

Scowling, she resumed her walk. Not slower and not faster, just the same, vamp ambush-ready stride that she used when she wasn't playing the bleached blonde bait. Maybe they should give it a name, the BBB routine. Triple B. Bee in Your Bonnet Bonnie with Angel as the Clyde.

And there we go, just ten paces from… whoever he was. "Odd getup for the graveyard shift, isn't it?" Now relatively close she quickly catalogued what she could see of the person, even if it was just from the profile. Guy, around six feet in height, broad-shouldered. High-collared white ankle-length coat over an equally white suit. Even the shoes were white… huh. "Nice boots."

To her shock, he motioned for her to be quiet. "Shhh…" He pulled his hands out of his pockets and just whispered. "It's about to start."

"What?"

The answer came in the form of a white flash of light. It was a small thing really, but that didn't matter as much as _where_ it happened. A flash of white and the hum of a musical note ended with a patch of dirt from the center of Xander's grave dumped ten inches away from its right-most edge. Then a second came, and a third, then another and another.

"What the hell?!" Buffy growled. She didn't get any response, but the flashes accelerated, until it was one constant glow of vertical beams digging Xander's grave wide open while the odd musical note went on and on. "Stop that right now!" But the guy didn't even look in her direction, so she did what any self-respecting slayer would do in that situation.

She pounced.

"Oooph!" Buffy hit the ground flailing and only barely managed to control her fall into an awkward but mostly undamaging roll. Ending in a wide crouch, she cautiously pulled back up to her feet. Her jump had been timed fine and the guy hadn't even twitched. "Tch!" She'd sailed right through him. "Lovely, it's little mister bodily challenged. Just my luck." Suddenly she lunged at him and threw a perfect side kick straight at his face, only for it to pass right through like the first time. "Damn! Not a one-time fluke then."

The man didn't flinch. He didn't even acknowledge her actually, which somehow pissed her off more than the lack of solid body to hit. "Don't you ignore me, buster! I said stop that right now!"

"Relax, _Buffster_." The voice made her freeze. It was a bit lower in pitch than she remembered, but she recognized it. Recognized it and couldn't believe it. "Everything will turn out alright." The eyes turned briefly in her direction. "Or you could say everything's already turned out alright, from a certain point of view."

The shock was so strong that she almost reached out to grab him by the shoulder and pull him around before she remembered he was just an illusion. Or a ghost.

A ghost.

Wide-eyed, Buffy stepped around the man as much as she could without crossing over to where the grave dirt piled up. The light beams and hum kept on sounding in the background, but she didn't pay any more attention to them. Not now that she was close enough to see details in the dark. She took a moment to look at what she could see of the person's facer above the collar. "No…" she breathed. "Xander…" It looked and sounded like her Xander-shaped friend. Or at least Xander if he had aged at least fifteen years since the last time she saw him standing.

As if in response to her realization, the remaining five feet of dirt in the grave suddenly flashed out and fell in one, big pile on the side of the resting place opposite from her. Then Buffy started when a final flash of light dumped the cover of the coffin on top of the newly risen mound. Then there was nothing. No more flashes, no movement, no words. Not taking her eyes off the white ghost, she edged towards the new hole in the ground. She made a mental note of the strange pendant around Ghost-Xander's neck – something to ask Giles about later – but she couldn't see it too clearly.

Once she was close enough to the pit edge she looked down at the body. Yep, still there.

Then back at the Ghost-Xander and again at the dead body of her friend, several times.

"Well damn!" Ghost-Xander quipped, looking down at dead-Xander. "I guess I really did always look this good!"

Buffy rolled her eyes. She couldn't help it. Of course, when she realized what she did she finally got around to thinking that this could all just be an elaborate illusion. Her Slay-dar was still giving her nada, but that didn't really mean anything good given the situation.

Unfortunately, she never got to say anything on the matter because a lightning bold suddenly struck down from the clear sky right into the maw of the freshly unearthed grave at her feet.

The thunder blast threw her to the ground on top of the grave adjacent to Xander's own, and it took a few good seconds for her ears to start doing anything other than ring dully in her skull. She almost hit her shoulder against the metal cross when she rolled away, and her sight was blurry even after she was back to her feet. But it eventually cleared enough to reveal that Ghost-Xander was still standing there.

Whatever he or it was, he had his arms crossed in front of his chest and a mildly bemused expression on his face. "Flashy. I've been waiting for _ages_ to see this happening from this side of the grave." He looked at her then, his eyes taking in everything about her that could be seen. Then he dropped his arms and glanced at the open pit one last time. "Well, that's that!" After which he turned on his heel and walked off.

Buffy stayed there, unable to compute the unexpected change in the situation. When the… _it_ was ten paces away, though, she finally got a grip and rushed over to Xander's grave-that-was and looked in.

Nothing. Just an empty coffin and the smell of burned wood and soil.

Snapping her head towards the white figure slowly strolling off, her lips came back in a snarl that expressed her sheer anger over what had just happened. Some… _thing_ had taken her friend's face and now stolen his body. "Oh no you don't, buster!" She took off faster than she'd ever sprinted in the past. In seconds she was on him, charging forward in a tackle that any professional football player would have wept in admiration over.

The conclusion was the same as that of her earlier attempt. Fortunately, she didn't hit any tree or grave add-ons on her latest reacquaintance with mother earth. Nevertheless, it was hardly a graceful landing. Grunting, she pushed herself to her feet yet again. "What was the word? Oh right. Ow." Then she turned around and glared at the still Ghostly Xander. "Who or what are you? What did you do with my friend's body!?"

She expected him… _it_ to laugh at her, but instead she got something else. "Slayerhood's inflicted some serious assault and battery on your optimism, huh?" She bristled at the sympathy on old-Xander's face. "I'd offer to give you a hug, but well…" He shrugged and waved a hand, turning it transparent. "I'm not actually here, obviously."

"Oh, and where are you then?"

"So you can finally take a shot at me in the flesh?" The goofy smile made her stomach flip and she didn't know if it was in hope or revulsion. Then Ghost-Xander just turned away and resumed his walk.

"What? Hey, hold on there, buster! We're not done here, whoever you are!" She hurried to catch up. It was times like these that she wished she had a mobile phone to call Giles on. "Tell me what you just did with Xander's body or so help me-"

"Oh for the love of God!" Ghost-guy burst, throwing his head back and pinching his nosebridge. "Buffy." He turned to look straight at her. The sight of what perfectly passed for a grown-up version of her friend took her breath away. So of _course_ he had to open his mouth again and ruin the effect. "Stop acting like a natural blonde! I know you dye your hair."

The Slayer gaped in outrage. "What the hell's that supposed to mean!?"

Ghost-Xander rolled his eyes and resumed walking, muttering "teenagers!" under his breath.

She gaped and stayed put, tempted to just go back and check on the grave again in case it had all just been part of the illusion.

"Well?" Ghost-Xander's voice eventually made her decide to leave it for later. "Come along."

She bristled but strode after him until they were walking side-by-side. "So what's the sitch really?" She tried for casual. No acknowledgment. "If this is the masquerading as the dead boyfriend routine, you got your cupid arrows mixed up." Ghost-Xander just smiled and kept walking. "No wait, this where you take on the likeness of my loved ones and lead me off to a secluded ritual ground or maybe your secret lair where you can have your wicked way with me."

She didn't expect a response, but she got one. "We are going to Giles' apartment."

Buffy stopped in her tracks. "Oh. So that's what you're after!" She crossed her arms and glared at the nerve of the guy. "Uh-uh! No way in hell am I leading you right where you want to be."

Unexpectedly, Ghost- doppelganger-Xander laughed and stopped to look at her. He shook his head and his eyes danced with mirth enough to make her want to either hit him or hug him and hope he was real. "It's not like his address is a secret."

She scoffed. "If you knew where he was, you wouldn't need me."

"Oh Buffy," he said fondly, smiling down at her. Damn him for being taller than her, just like everyone else. "I'm already where we're going." Then he turned away and resumed his walk down the sidewalk.

Wait, what? She caught up with him and passed her hand through him just to check. Yep, still ghosty. "What? I swear, if you've harmed a hair on-"

"Relax," he drawled. "I'm not inside. I'm on the roof of the apartment building." Then he unexpectedly looked in the distance two alleys over. "Heard that Deadboy? Go over and check!"

"What?" She looked where he was gazing despite herself. "Angel's here?"

"Well, not anymore," maybe-Xander answered as he kept his eyes on the darkness in the same direction as before. "He always watches over you from afar while you're patrolling, even on these nights. Right now he's running off ahead to make sure I'm not at Giles place and, what was it you said?" His side-glance was clearly amused at her expense. "Ah yes. Having my wicked way with him."

Buffy wished she didn't, but that statement conjured some really disturbing images in her head before she could banish them to the deepest pit of her brain. "Ugh! I wasn't sure before but I sure as heck hate you now!"

She didn't expect the long, piercing gaze that followed her statement. She didn't expect his answer either. "No. You really don't." Then his face cleared and an all-too-Xander-like smile overtook it. "You will in a moment though."

"Oh really?" She tensed just in case he or something else could attack her.

He didn't give any signs of noticing. "Oh yeah!" He looked ahead again. "You know how Giles always stays up until you call in or visit after your patrols?"

"Get to the point!"

"Okay!" He grinned. "See, I may not be in his apartment and having my wicked ways with him at the moment," he laughed at her disgusted look. "But why would I need to, when Miss Calendar's been there for hours?"

"Ugh!" Buffy covered both eyes, a mistake she would beat herself up over later. "TMI! TMI! I do NOT want to imagine Giles in that position… any position with… anybody!"

"And yet you can't help but do it!" Ghost-Adult-Xander quipped sagely. "Kinda like watching a train wreck. I _completely_ understand."

The slayer pulled her palms away from her eyes and finally realized what a mistake it had been to blind herself that way when she saw that ghost-guy was already pulling his hand out of his coat pocket. Shit! Her muscles coiled like springs and she sprung away on instinct just as not-Xander pulled out…

… a Twinkie.

For the second time in an hour, Buffy the Vampire Slayer gaped, regardless of how embarrassed she was on the inside, both for covering her eyes in such a situation and for what had ultimately been an unnecessary overreaction.

And if nothing before had been enough for her to actually trust a hope that she was really talking to Xander, the way he failed to or pretended not to notice her lapse almost did. The all too real sounds made by the Twinkie wrap coming undone almost did her in, but she still rallied the remnants of her skepticism.

Damn him for making such a good imitation of her friend!

Then Xander stopped walking and, having fully unwrapped the confectionary, stuffed it whole in his mouth with a whimper of absolute bliss.

That done, he crushed the package in his fist and tossed it away, sending it flying unerringly down the mouth of a trash can twenty feet away. Buffy watched with unexplainable anxiousness as it flew through the air, and her slayer hearing heard the air rushing around it, the crunch as it hit the metal.

"So Buffy," Xander turned around, still chewing on his snack cake. "What'll it be? Truth?" he held up a second Twinkie then tilted his head in the direction of the trash can that a ghost shouldn't have been able to touch. "Or dare?"


	2. Chapter 1: Antiquated

**A/N:** This chapter ends in a weird place, but I felt it was already long enough. Consider it half of a whole. Hopefully it won't take too many ages for the next to come out.

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**Chapter 1: Antiquated**

"-. .-"

It was his tenth winter and also one of the harshest ones in his memory. The land was particularly fickle in that regard. Some years there was barely any rainfall or snow and it never actually went below freezing even during Peritios, the moon of January. Other years, like this one, the vardarac wind broke through from the north and turned the winters severe, no matter how hot the previous summer.

It was a time of thick snow and biting cold. It made most people stay indoors, but it also drove some to outlawry, caused them to resort to theft and mugging. In addition to those who lived that way as a rule of thumb. Desperation and hunger could be strong motivators like that. It didn't seem to apply to their region much, since the village nearby wasn't particularly large and the region itself did not have a history of banditry. But hunger and illness could turn anyone desperate and Alexander tended to worry about these dangers as a matter of course.

His father once asked him why it was, but he couldn't think of an answer. Which was strange because sometimes he thought his father already knew it.

Sitting on the roof he'd just cleared of snow – it was made of shingles, not thatch, yet another thing to make them look like a rich target - Alexander hoped no one tried to accost them that day while traveling to and from the village. It was less than a quarter day's trip by horse-drawn cart, but enough to be beyond the sight of the settlement for a fair portion of the trip. Plenty of spots to be ambushed, especially since their half of the path was in a forest.

Then again, it would be just as easy to come and attack their home. For some unknown reason (Alexander would really have to discover it one of these days), their home was well outside any settlements. Close to the nearby village of Darovo but not enough for a journey to and fro on foot to be practical. He had to admit, though, that the forest clearing they were in protected them from the worst of any weather and also happened to be close to a clear water spring that flowed strong all year long. There was even a dam a bit further down, no doubt dug and boarded up by his father before he even came into the picture. The gravel at the bottom looked like it had been transported too. Some of Alexander's earliest memories included bathing there, a habit he still liked to indulge in all throughout the year, save for cold times.

"What on earth are you doing up there, son?"

Alexander looked down in surprise, glanced over to the door of the workshop that his father had somehow left without a sound, then back down at said father. Athanasius. Athanasius the artisan. Or occasionally Athanasius the smith when the mood struck him to craft weapons and take them along for market days. How he could so quietly appear almost out of nowhere, especially when he was as large as three men and had the strength and weight to match, the boy still had no idea. "Umm… sweeping the snow?"

"How perfectly literal of you," came the deadpan. It was a rich, strong voice distinctive enough to be recognized even in the chaos of the agora. His father was a large man. Enormous really, tall enough that he didn't fit through doors without bending forward – and sometimes shifting sideways – and literally made of muscle. Between that and his two-fingerwidths-long, snow-white hair and beard, he cut a very imposing figure even when seen from above. Especially when he placed his hands on his hips and frowned. "Try again."

Yes, like that.

Alexander had _not_ intended to mumble that he'd gone and climbed up to sweep the roof because the shingles were pretty new and he didn't appreciate nature's _lack_ of appreciation for the effort his old man had gone through to put them up back in October, but he did mutter out just that.

Dammit.

"And the fact that I refused to allow you to join me up there when I worked on it had nothing to do with your decision to climb there now_, _while _out of my sight_." The way he stressed the words made the boy want to hide, but alas there was no suitable place on the roof of the house. "And without a ladder." On second thought, maybe he really shouldn't be worrying about possible muggings at all. One look at the man and any would-be bandits would probably make for the hills.

There was an awkward silence.

Then a nervous laugh. "I… just wanted to show that I could?" Even without the too-heavy ladder that was folded inside the workshop. Which sounded a lot like he'd done it to spite his old man, but really, he _hadn't_. "I'm okay, see?" He even pushed himself to his feet and only slightly wavered before regaining his balance. His balance had always been good, like a lot of other things about him if he did say so himself. "I can handle it! No wooziness or wobbliness! I could have totally helped!"

"Alexander." The firm voicing of his name snapped him to stillness, as always when that tone was used. "I _can_ make the time to rehash some of our _confrontation_ about acting grownup and _being_ grownup."

"I'll be good!" Then again, standing on top of the roof and waving his hands wildly around didn't really help his case.

"Well, I suppose you'll have to be _good_ from up there then, while I deal with… this." He gestured at the large bank of snow now circling the house.

Oh.

He was going to _suffer the consequences_.

Oh _no._

The last and only time it ever happened was prompted by the workshop incident. A five-year-old Alexander had been certain that he would do a good job of… something… if he were just allowed access to the workshop equipment. He'd done enough of watching, or reading while his father worked, noise or no, but never actually used the things there. He'd already become really, really good at drawing things or molding stuff from clay. And he wasn't allowed to handle knives so he couldn't try out wood carving, which sucked because he would have like to try and make a copy of his father's pendant.

So he snuck in while his father was in the village helping deal with a nasty epidemic of… something. Alexander hadn't cared at the time, being too caught up in acting normal and responsible until his father decided he would risk leaving him home alone in order to go help the villagers. To his shame, the boy had been secretly pleased that the epidemic had left all his possible sitters unavailable, rare though they were. When the time came that it was clear to pick the padlock, he proceeded to do just that and entered the workshop he _still_ wasn't allowed in without supervision even to this day. With the benefit of hindsight in regards to the events that followed, how he managed not to get himself killed or seriously injured back then he didn't know even now.

As it was, he got frustrated by the hammer and tongs being too heavy and big, no matter how well fed and exercised he was. So he went through the rest of the equipment inside and figured he'd go all the way and try smelting. That ended with him starting too large a fire, which wasn't so bad for the bare ground floor but rather unfortunate for the walls which _were_ wood and, thus, caught fire just fine.

Athanasius made it home that afternoon just in time to prevent the fire from spreading through the dry grass to the house and trees. So they weren't left destitute and didn't start a forest fire, but the workshop itself had been completely unsalvageable. Along with a fair portion of their fence. Alexander was rather surprised he had such a clear memory of the events considering how terrified he'd been while they were going on.

Over the following month, Alexander was forced to learn to do the washing, how to sweep floors, how to _wash_ floors, how to tar fences and any other chores his father could think of. He was also tortured via the expedient of being forced to eat the most foul-tasting gruel that had ever been inflicted upon mankind.

Athanasius would show him how to do a task and leave him to it, then order him to do it again later if he did it poorly. Per his father's words, since he now had a ruined workshop to rebuild and a throng of ruined tools and goods to remake or buy, the time his father would normally invest into doing all those other things was no longer available. And besides, if he, the five-year-old, wanted to be a grownup he may as well know exactly what it entailed. He'd be a poor parent, Athanasius told him, if he let him live in ignorance, especially after that ignorance had almost gotten him killed or worse.

At the end of the month, the man sat a tired, dirty and blistery boy down and proceeded to flatly list exactly how much time he invested into cooking for him, cleaning after him and generally ensuring his wellbeing and happiness, though he didn't put it in those words. He instead made it sound as though a grownup would have been able to do it properly in a fraction of a time and maybe now Alexander knew better than wishing he grew up too quickly or thinking he already was an adult when he wasn't. The real message had been well received, however, especially seeing as how Athanasius had eaten the exact, same horrible gruel Alexander had had to live through during those times. As if to say 'I only ever cook for your benefit since I can live with this poison from the river Styx just fine.'

The memory ended almost as soon as it emerged in his mind.

Seeing his father now, turning his eyes away from him and towards the moat-like mound of snow that had been knocked off the roof by his activities, Alexander's mind's eye was overtaken by panic. For just a moment, but it happened. Caused the world to slow down around him and made his heartbeat audible in his ears, his blood to throb in his temples. They had a schedule to keep today, since his father always wanted to be early when they did go to the market in the winters. To meet the requests of frazzled people in need of things fixed or changed as early as possible. He had a reputation for that. But if his father was going to go about shoveling the snow away, he'd never have time to cook anything that wasn't an insult to food everywhere. Not only would breakfast be torture, but so would lunch!

And with him, Alexander, literally stranded on the roof until his father decided to bring the too-heavy-for-a-child ladder over (the overhanging branch he'd used to make it there was too high up to reach for and make the trip back, now that there was no body, however small, to weigh it down) he couldn't go over and cook something himself either.

So before he could even think of stopping himself, he yelled a long, soulful "Nooo!" Alright, so maybe the panic in his voice wasn't altogether justifiable, but he dared anyone to force the same gruel down their throats and not do the same in his position.

His father looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

What the child did next was the stupidest and craziest thing he could have done in that situation.

He jumped.

The world was still slow around him and his blood still throbbed in his temples. He dimly registered that he'd leapt a fair bit higher and farther than he meant to, but that was secondary to the startled surprise that flashed in his father's eyes. They were a deeper shade of blue than anyone else's, and they weren't so large that Alexander should have been able to see the color from that height, especially as they were shaded in that grove of theirs that never got direct sunlight until closer to midday. But he did. The moment was long, longer than it should have been.

It eventually came to a sudden end when he landed in his father's arms.

"Sweet heavens, boy!" It was as tight as his voice had ever become in Alexander's memory, but the man didn't stumble in the least, and his son honestly hadn't expected him to.

The blood drained from his temples all too quickly and left him feeling faint, but not enough to prevent him from laughing. He hung there, feet a fair distance from the ground as his laughter refused to stop. He wasn't let go of, not even when he finally calmed down, the rush of doing something so crazy draining from him at last. He would have expected to be put on the ground and given at least a look of admonishment.

Instead, his father sunk to the ground still embracing him and gave a deep, long sigh, never letting go even then.

That… was not something Alexander had expected. It didn't sound like fear or relief. If anything, it sounded like… mourning? Or maybe it was all three. With more effort than he expected, he squirmed in the hold and managed to look up. Unusually serious eyes met his.

They closed and his old man's forehead came to rest on his. "I must be the worst father on earth."

"What!?" Alexander balked but had absolutely no idea how else to respond to that.

"My son just jumped off a roof. Right in front of me." Getting a hug was rather common compared to regular custom, something which Alexander appreciated, especially as his father mostly kept them private, but having it happen because of… well, not-great feelings was giving him conflicting thoughts. "Fool boy, what if I'd missed?"

Even held against the man's heart, he was shaking his head before his father was even done. "There's no way you would've."

"You _overshot_." He… growled, almost. "By all accounts, I _should_ have missed."

"You didn't," the boy just leaned into the embrace now, forehead against his father's collarbone. His nose was even brushing against the wooden pendant Athanasius always wore in plain sight of everyone, even over the thick himation he put on during rain or snowfall. It was an odd medallion, some sort of completely symmetrical but flat knot made of a single line, hand-sculpted from oak but white and fine enough to be mistaken for marble. "I knew you wouldn't."

"Oh, for the love of…" Another sigh, then nothing.

It was a while later that they moved. Or more precisely his father stood up, still holding him and carried him over to the bench on the porch, where he finally surrendered his hold. Maybe the reason they didn't live in the village like everyone else was because the house didn't share much in common with the rest, architecturally-wise. And he wasn't just talking about the use of shingles instead of thatch this time.

Hold on, what was the thinking? That didn't have anything to do with anything at the moment.

"Alexander." The boy's eyes snapped to his father's. "Explain your reasoning, if indeed there was any behind the insanity you just pulled."

Gulping but knowing better than to look away, he answered. "Um… I figured that if I made it off the roof somehow and did the snow shoveling then it'd be done fast enough for us to get back on time and even if I just helped you then we'd still be able to scrounge enough time to prepare something before we had to finally leave for the village market day which would mean that even if we did have to skip most of breakfast we'd still have something decent for noon meal and wouldn't have to face the prospect of eating the Paste of Penance which is an utter affront to Hestia!" Gasp.

A small part of his mind felt strangely like he'd just done an unintentional imitation of someone, but he hadn't the foggiest why he would feel that way.

His father stared at him. "So you jumped off the roof and risked a painful death at _best_… because you didn't want to eat mash." Of _course_ he would put it in a way that made it sound completely absurd.

It wasn't like it was _his_ fault he had uncompromising taste in food. If he wanted his tongue rendered insensate, his father shouldn't have spoiled him by baking those magnificent golden sponge cakes on his birth days and every other special occasion.

Athanasius sighed and pinched his nosebridge. "Just get a shovel while I start on some bread."

With a triumphant whoop, Alexander took off towards the shed that had very deliberately been built separate from the main workshop after the fire years before. Finding the wide, metal implement topped with a wooden handle – another one of his father's creations, like pretty much everything else they owned – he put it in a wheelbarrow and dragged both to the side of the house and set to work. He finished in record time – he was quite proud of being able to lift the wheelbarrow at his age even though he could only fill a fourth of it and still manage it – then he returned the vehicle and tool to their positions. After a moment's thought, he grabbed a besom and set about sweeping the remainder of the snow that had piled under the house eaves.

The poor broom had seen better days. Maybe his old man would let him try to make one too this time, once spring rolled around.

When he came out of the shed after returning the besom, his father was tying the reins of the horse to their cart. The horse that had replaced their previous, very old horse a couple of years back and whom Athanasius had allowed Alexander to name, much to the everlasting regret that Alexander was sure was there even if his father never showed it. For upon being offered the chance, young(er) Alexander had experienced a flash of inspiration he would forever claim to be divine and gave the horse the name Bob.

Even now, Alexander was quite proud of how his mind did not even begin to dwell on the inconsequential detail that "Bob" was a name that did not exist in Greek.

His father had already locked the house and put everything else away. Seeing that, Alexander hurried over to pick up his himation from where he'd dropped it at the base of the tree he'd used in his illicit activity and which would hopefully not go to the woodsman axe due to that day's events. He decided not to put the thick cloak on unless the sky got overcast enough to herald precipitation. Or if the wind got particularly nasty. Or evening came and brought worse cold, whichever came first.

Then he climbed next to his father at the front of the cart and, after accepting yet another new book that his father seemed to bring out of nowhere whenever he finished the previous one (it was a tragedy collection by Aeschylus this time) they were on their way.

It had been four winters since the first market day he attended. Before that his life had been… not sheltered exactly, but he had been isolated from those of his own age, and most everyone else. Until then it had always been just him and his father for as long as he could remember. One father, no mother. No memories of one at least, and he could clearly remember as far back as turning two years old.

Perfectly.

Come to think of it, his memory was very good, better than most anyone else's, so it was kind of odd that he didn't have even a smattering of impressions dating back to before he was two. His first recollection was waking up as a child, with his old man sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a tome but with his right hand on his son's forehead as he came to wakefulness. More than a year later, after he started reading and came across the concept of two parents, he asked about his mother, but his father only answered that there wasn't one and that he'd know and understand more when he got older. Never a specific time frame was offered. In fact, that was a line he liked to use for a lot of things, which annoyed Alexander and, consequently, amused his father. Which annoyed Alexander even more and made him act as though it didn't just to deny him further satisfaction.

Back then he didn't understand that being fully articulate and used to walking on his own two feet was unusual for boys his age. That most children didn't learn to read or write until they were at least five or six, if there was anyone literate available to teach them at all. His father taught him to read at the age of three because that was when he asked for lessons and his father didn't mind trying to see how it went. He got the hang of it in a matter of days – again, only later upon meeting other children realizing that was abnormally fast – so he grew up reading Homer while his father cooked, cleaned, hammered away at his anvil or did any of a hundred different things. Very often he simply sat there with him in the evenings after everything was done for the day, listening to him, explaining events and meanings, and correcting his pronunciation.

Writing didn't come until he was four, again because he didn't ask for lessons until then. He'd been too caught up in using his hands for other things, like drawing and clay molding.

Learning to write took a bit longer, but not by much, and only because his father wasn't satisfied until his calligraphy was flawless. With _both_ hands since he was ambidextrous. "I only ever offer the best to my children," he'd say when asked why he was so insistent on what he considered perfection. "Would it not be a waste if you did not do the same for yourself? Besides, when you eventually have children of your own, by blood or otherwise, will they not deserve the same from you?"

That 'by blood or otherwise' part stuck with him, especially since he never could guess what age his father was. His white hair said older than anyone could be and still have a child, at least with a woman of similar age, but he didn't otherwise look beyond his mid years. The boy never really brought it up, since he didn't want to know the answer, or maybe he didn't care. Besides, it was probably among the things he "would understand when he got older" whatever in Tartarus that meant.

The day he turned six, his father finally agreed to let him tag along on his trip to the village of Darovo. It was during the summer, which meant they would be returning each week for market day. The first time he just hovered near the stall and watched as his old mad did business. He even got to hang out with another boy his age later, after they packed up and his dad answered a house call. It was also when he found out that Athanasius was something of an all-things expert, not just with tools and crafts but in medicine and anything else anyone could ask about.

He was undecided about the time he spent with the son of his father's customers. The concept of activities involving multiple children was attractive, but they had limited options, and Alexander seemed to easily dominate any physical activity. After several more market day trips and interactions with other children, he started to wonder if he should bother. All of them seemed so… well, stupid.

That evening at home his father sat with him, already knowing his thoughts and impressions and explained, in thorough detail, that he was somewhat better endowed physically and mentally but that he should learn to set those differences aside and make ties with others anyway. Because they weren't stupid or weak, just normal. That they had a lot to teach and show him anyway. That there were certain activities that could be enjoyed regardless of how many advantages one happened to have over the others.

And because in another life he might have been in their position as well.

Alexander wondered if that implied something about his ambiguous parentage and how he was fortunate enough to end up taken in by the man raising him. But like before, he held his silence.

After that, things went reasonably well, after a fair bit of coaching from his old man on what was and wasn't likely to drive others away. He managed to make some casual friends and found enjoyment in playing various games with them, though his father never allowed him to go beyond shouting distance. Which worked fine since many children hung out in the agora anyway, small though it was. Stones was a nice game but real success came when he introduced the other kids to cat's cradle. When he inevitably got roped into swordplay, he became everyone's hero except for the older bully's who's clock he cleaned during a mock spar.

He didn't initially understand what the big deal was. It wasn't like he knew anything more about swords than they did. And they were using sticks and poor sculpted imitations anyway. They were all just really slow in his opinion.

Needless to say, after a show like that – and an episode when his father had to fend off complaints by the _bully's_ father, who'd come seeking to get them both in trouble for 'harassing his boy' only to falter rather magnificently when his old man stood up and loomed over him and everyone else in sight – he became the unofficial trainer of the 'vendor kids.'

He eventually caved and asked his father for tips at home, only to learn that said parent actually did know his way around the blade, and he didn't just mean smithing.

Go figure.

The other thing that won him popularity was his growing reputation as a storyteller. With all the tomes and scrolls he'd read growing up, he was full of tales, real or otherwise. So, naturally, he ended up recounting them. He didn't do that well at first, his audience paying attention just because the stories were all new (or, well, unheard of in that village where real education was sparse) but never for long. It hadn't been the best idea to just recite the tales from memory, and it drew some strange looks from the adults nearby.

His father told him later that it looked like he was trying too hard and that the verses sounded odd to common folk like them. Also, simple folk, old and young, would have trouble following no matter how articulate he was, especially if he didn't restrict his vocabulary to something more modest. So he handed him a blank scroll the next day, sat him at the desk he usually used himself, put a quill in his hand and told him to write down the next story he intended to tell, no more than forty finger widths long. In prose, not rhyme. Alexander actually enjoyed the challenge, even if he only got the "approval" of his father on the story of Perseus and Medusa on the fifth draft. Though he did say the third would be good enough for an adult audience, since it didn't gloss over the messier details. Sometimes when he took a break from writing, Athanasius taught him about figures of speech and every secret of rhetoric there was.

He actually ended up telling the third draft during the communal celebration to honor Demeter after the harvest finished, some weeks after. There had been lots of food and wine, and bonfires, and lots of time to run or sit around while the adults partied as they were wont. He impressed everyone, not just the kids, with his rendition, and he even got into a discussion with an old soldier that was visiting his sister.

Just as the talk was winding down, Alexander was retrieved by his old man and ushered away, then they both left for home. He was a bit put out, but not enough to actually cause any sort of argument. At the next market day, he got told some tales himself for once. About what happened at the party after he left, how this or that boy or girl's father or mother got drunk and got into a fight, or how some village folk were caught behind tents or in the field, going about their wicked ways, whatever that meant.

He asked his father later, and it got shoved in the "you'll understand when you're older" pile. Athanasius was particularly amused in fact, on that specific occasion.

When the next big event came, the boy didn't really figure out how to ask his father to let him stay longer, or even if he should. He couldn't very well walk over and open up with "father, let's stay longer and see everyone else do nasty things to each other because I'm curious." But his old man made the choice for himself, and Alexander, son of Athanasius, was finally exposed to the bad side of humanity. The violence and ensuing messes were a nasty sight, and he did not like the idea that things could be even worse. He thanked the stars that he'd at least been somewhat prepared for it due to all the writings he'd been going through, even if they didn't really dull the edge.

Speaking of which.

Alexander blinked back into the present and closed his eyes completely, finally done with the first of the plays in the tome. It wasn't the best plot he'd read, especially since the way the gods just showed up at the end and "fixed" everything was kind of a copout, and things still ended up sucking big time for the main characters.

He took a moment to enjoy the self-satisfaction of fully reading, understanding and memorizing a text while also taking a trip down memory lane at the exact same time.

Then he started on the next play, knowing that the following days he would be filling a lot of parchment with an adult version and a more child-friendly version of all plays.

He was so absorbed in the customary pastime that it was only mid-way through their trip, near the edge of the woods, that alarm gongs started to sound in the boy's mind. "It strikes me," his father began all too casually, "that you don't understand the meaning of the word 'consequences.'"

By that point he was already staring at the man next to him and was about to open his mouth when –

"- because the alternative would be that you understand it just fine but have been deliberately testing my patience in an effort to see if the situation, and thus myself, could be manipulated towards whatever scenarios and wishes happen to be floating inside that overactive head of yours." That made his mouth close down quite fast, even though Athanasius had his gaze very deliberately fixed on the path ahead. "So since that lack of understanding can _only_ be the fault of the only adult in your life, I, alas, must take measures to cure you of that ignorance. Which is why I decided to make leavened bread instead of flatbread today."

He actually preferred puffy bread compared to the normal one, so Alexander didn't immediately get it. When he did, he gasped in horror. Leavened bread was made of dough that had to be left to rise for up to a few good hours, unlike flatbread which could be made relatively quickly. Which meant that while his father definitely had gone inside to make bread, he had _not_ had time to do more than knead the dough and set it aside. His mind working overtime, Alexander tried to see if he could remember any instance where his old man loaded anything into the cart after the roof-jumping incident of earlier.

Nothing.

Gaping in horror, the boy scrambled off the front seat and started to look under the blankets and lids, though he already knew what he'd find. Or, rather, not find. "No…" he breathed at last, when he was forced to face reality.

They had no food with them at all.

"Don't fret, son," Athanasius said casually from the front. Bob even seemed to whinny in agreement, the traitor. "I'm sure Eusebios will make his usual rounds at noon. Given the times, he's probably even more strapped for coin than normal. Means you can even do your good deed for the day, seeing as the relatively simple act of _not _making me fear for your life does not seem to be sufficient any longer."

Alexander winced at the fully deserved rebuke, but the horror of his situation soon overcame even that.

Gods no. Eusebios the toothless. That man made money by bringing "lunch" to the stall vendors, only he only ever had gruel to offer. Gruel that was just barely less horrible than the one his father liked to torture him with. And there was no way to just skip the meal entirely with his father there.

Alexander didn't bother getting back to the front of the cart. He just slumped where he was.

"-. .-"

The day actually didn't turn out to be all that bad, horrible 'food' or no. Alexander even got to man the stall for a while when his father agreed to go take care of another one of his house calls. Measurements for some wood beams he would be making back at their home once spring broke. A family was planning to build an outdoor kitchen since the woman of the household was expecting a child and they planned to turn the existing kitchen into another bedroom. With her currently visiting her mother for the winter, all the way to Pella of all places, the husband decided to get the preparations over and done with before the place got too crowded and loud.

There had been an instance where someone tried to make off with one of the swords, as well as an issue with a particularly surly man who tried bartering for some of his father's better locks. The thief never managed anything because all weapons were strapped to the stall with leather harnesses. The one fishing for a too-good deal for the locking system eventually left after Alexander refused to falter in front of his forceful manner. And the man didn't dare try to do anything stupid like just take the thing he was after and dump only what he thought was the right price, if he left any coin at all. The disapproving looks of the many people milling about were more than enough to send him off, grumbling all the while.

None of the village residents wanted to risk alienating his very useful and intimidating father, and that particular swindler wannabe was among the wealthier villagers anyway. He was just being a stingy opportunist. Or trying at least.

Alexander was just glad it wasn't the father of that former bully he'd beaten down years before, because the whole situation would have been too much of a cliché.

Sitting next to his father in the cart as they passed through the woods, the boy blinked back to the present and then frowned at nothing.

Cliché… That word… He had no idea where it had just come from. What language was it in? Certainly not Greek. Something Thracian maybe? For some months now he'd been getting flashes of… what? Languages he'd never learned? Come to think of it, he wasn't exactly familiar with everyone in the village, and the man who'd tried to swindle him (badly) was a complete unknown, so how did he know he was among the wealthy ones? As far as anyone in that settlement could be called rich anyhow. He looked… well, normal. Even his clothes were bland.

Alexander turned his gaze to maybe broach the subject aloud but halted when he noticed the serious, focused eyes that Athanasius had aimed at some trees up ahead and to the right. The man slowly turned his gaze from them to the ones across the path, then tilted his head as if listening to something coming from behind. "Son." He said, quietly but firmly. "Climb back into the cart, get under the cover and _stay_ _down_."

Knowing better than to even think of defying that tone, he did as instructed, heart speeding up when he remembered his musings of that morning. There wasn't much space, since their vehicle wasn't even long enough to let a man stretch fully, which was why it got by with just two wheels. Still, it wasn't even half-full after a good day at the agora, so he managed to shift things around enough to fit. Soon he had fully hidden below the large sheet of wool covering their supplies, staying as still as possible. But he still peeked through a deliberate gap in the folds. Curiosity was not easily curbed after all.

He _was_ just ten.

The view was obstructed, but he could see fairly well at a distance of six or so feet and beyond. By that point, his father had brought them to a halt and set the reins aside. Without a word he climbed off and took several steps, then waited cross-armed for something to happen.

Alexander was already starting to hear his blood rushing through the veins in his temples. He didn't know if it was fear or anticipation –

A tall, ragged-looking thug stepped out from between of the trees, followed by two others. Alexander didn't dare move more than his head, but his ears were enough to let him know they weren't the only ones. They were surrounded. The horse made a few noises of discontent at the sudden crowd and attempted to bite one of the bandits that tried got close to him. The sight of poorly-maintained but very real weapons made the boy's undecided mood drop straight to fear.

His father was strong and good at many things, but there were _eight _of them, and those were just the ones he could see or hear nearby, thank the heavens for the crunch of feet in freshly fallen snow. But at least two had _bows_.

The world already seemed to be both slowing down around him and also speeding up, and his breath was growing quicker by the moment. He still had enough mind to wonder why none of them had started posturing or demanding all their goods and money "or else."

As if on cue, the apparent leader made as if to say something. Unfortunately for him, he'd walked within reaching distance of his father.

It happened so quickly that it took Alexander's breath away. One moment the bandit was opening his rotten tooth-filled mouth to spout something and the next he was literally hanging in mid-air, held up by the throat and choking on lack of air, eyes wide and startled. Athanasius efficiently divested him of the poor-quality sword he tried to swing at his head and unceremoniously drove it through his belly all the way out through the back.

There was a hitch and the sound of heavy breathing in Alexander's ears...

Wait. It was his own.

Clearly caught off guard by the actions of the man the bandits thought was going to try and parlay, the other two on that side of the cart froze in shock. Not so for the one that the horse had tried to bite and who'd circled around. With a cry of rage, he drew back the arm that was waving an axe at the horse and instead threw it at Athanasius –

Flesh and bone was hacked and crushed, causing the head bandit's whole body to spasm in pain from being used as a human shield. It was the last breath he ever took, and Alexander never really figured out if it was the half-blunt throwing axe that did him in or being strangled to death one-handed. A lifeless body thudded to the snow-covered ground, red rapidly staining the white. Athanasius was facing the axe-man now, so Alexander could clearly see his profile. See that the unmerciful calm was not only in his voice but also on his face when he spoke.

"I am a gentle man at heart. At least while I'm not slaughtering the stupid." Alexander didn't know if it was the tone or the words that chilled him more. "I can even appreciate the irony of being accosted by _men,_ seeing as my presence is more than sufficient to ward off the true monsters of this world." Young lungs hitched as they tried to regain their breath. "But while I prefer to hand out as many chances for redemption as possible, I have no qualms about passing judgment on wandering criminals." He gestured at the body and reddening snow at his feet. "Especially scum who raped and then killed eight people over the last four weeks alone."

No one moved.

So his father bent his head to the side and spoke again. "None of you are as rotten as he was, or were truly aware of his nature even if only due to wilful blindness. Since you are just passing through, I will offer you mercy and allow you one chance to turn your lives around. You will leave this region _now_. Leave and never return, or suffer the consequences."

No one moved. Barely anyone _breathed_.

But panic and stupidity ruled the day, and the bandits all yelled and charged in at once. At least Alexander thought it was all of them, but that was as much as he got around to thinking before the horse reared back and caused the cart to jerk every which way. It didn't tilt or crack anywhere, but it was enough to knock Alexander around.

Falling right next to a dislodged lockbox, Alexander wisely decided to stay as still as possible lest he manage to brain himself on something next time he tried to peek. But that was the last rational thought that entered his mind as the commotion kept going outside. Later he would curse his hearing for being so good, for being enough to build gruesome images of his father falling to stab wounds in his mind, for the illusion playing out as reality in his nightmares. As it was, in the moment he only had enough awareness to hear his own breathing and the noises of disbelief, violence and pain.

He almost managed to fight through the panic of having his fears finally realized after so many years of peace and quiet. As the fighting went on, he only ever heard unfamiliar voices screaming or cursing in everything from rage and pain to sheer terror. But terror was what Alexander suddenly felt spiking in his own chest when the large woolen cover was abruptly pulled off him and the whole cart, revealing a half-toothless, threadbare cloak-wearing thug at the foot of the wagon.

He did the only thing he could think of when being confronted with the crazed look of a knife-wielding man. A man who at that point wanted only to inflict some kind of damage on the one that had turned their ambush around, before he died like the others. Even if it was just indirectly through his son.

Alexander scrambled away with a gasp of fear.

Or tried. There was not much room to back off in such a small space, and before he could decide whether to risk turning around in an attempt to jump off, the horse whinnied loudly and the whole cart jerked in place like it had at the start of that disaster.

The boy flailed, balance lost. He only barely managed to grab a hold of the iron beam holding the side panels in place. Then he finally heard the whistle in the air, and something passed through the space half an inch shy of the left side of his neck. Charged up as he was in the moment, he actually saw the wooden shaft clearly and slowly enough to count the tiny cracks in the aging wood. And as much as it defied all logic, he understood its trajectory for what it was, even if it made no sense: a _curve_.

The spear smashed into and through the chest of the bandit whose knife was half a foot away from a too young boy's face. Then it just kept flying until it drove through bark and pinned the man to the tree trunk several yards away, on the _left_ side of the trail even though it made no sense.

Alexander stared in numb stillness at the man pinned to the tree, some good feet above the ground. His lungs hitched as he attempted to draw breath in and failed. His sight was starting to be overtaken by black and yellow spots, even as he clearly saw death come over the bandit's eyes as his bloody struggles slowly ceased. Never mind that he was a fair distance away but it seemed instead like he was right in front of him.

The world slid away from him then, sideways and backwards and silence fell over everything as the light became too bright and too far away –

A large, strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder tight enough to make him gasp just as uselessly as before. "Alexander." The encroaching unconsciousness wavered momentarily and stalled, even as it still battered away at his lungs. "Breathe _out_. _Now_." He didn't realize he'd done it, but he must have when the voice commanded again. "Now in. _Slowly._" He didn't quite manage to do it slowly, but strangely enough his lungs did accept air now. "Now out. Now in. Now out. Keep going."

He followed the orders as they came. He didn't know what they were supposed to do, how they were supposed to help. The more he did the better he could hear the blood in his temples and feel his hearth in his throat. The more he tried to breathe, the harder something tight and hot hammered his chest from the inside as if it wanted to burst out. But the spots from his vision faded and the world slid back into place from where it had begun to slip away like a broken kaleidoscope.

Whatever a kaleidoscope was supposed to be. Something… made of glass and rainbows?

Right. His mind was failing him again. No wonder he'd hallucinated the spear curving through the air. Of course it hadn't _really_ done that.

The world bent again. For a moment he thought he was falling but that wasn't it. Before he knew it he'd been relocated to the front of the cart. In his father's lap, actually. His father who at some point had wrapped the second largest blanket around the both of them and was steadily rubbing a hand across his son's back while the other held him as close as he had earlier that morning. Soothing words kept streaming from him as he warded off the world.

It seemed to last forever and Alexander even wished it would, for a while.

Eventually, some of Alexander's wits returned and his lungs stopped burning. His blood still felt like ice and his limbs trembled uncontrollably, but he could at least _think_, however erratically. The shame for his perceived weakness would come later, but there was enough reason at that moment for him to want to wrestle the shock down enough for his father to at least feel reassured enough to get them started back on their way.

Come to think of it, no more words had been coming from the man for a while, but maybe that was for the best. Being cocooned in that embrace felt better that way.

Finally he was able to breathe normally, but when he thought he could speak again and opened his eyes to at least try and take in the surrounding area before they moved on, his words died on the tip of his tongue and there was a totally new reason to lapse into shocked silence.

They were already home.

"-. .-"

Alexander didn't have enough wits left to do anything but crash and go to sleep once they were finally in the house. He never asked, but the older of the two may or may not have laced his glass of milk with something to put him under.

The day after the failed attack was another story. Realizing he'd been so out of it that he never noticed the cart resuming its trip or their arrival at home made a fine addition to his shame for freezing up and otherwise being pitifully weak and a burden during the events that transpired. But he didn't really get to indulge in those feelings more than a day, if that. As usual, his father knew exactly what was going on in his head.

Poking a hole through the blob of bad feelings was as easy as a well-timed, sarcastic comment on Athanasius' part. That Alexander must truly have a very inflated opinion of himself if he believed he should have shown the same bravery and valor as Achilles and Ulysses did when they were twice his age. Shame thus trampled by simple embarrassment, the boy was brought the rest of the way out of it by a long, tender embrace. During the days that followed he would repeatedly be caught off guard by a side hug or a well-timed hand on the head when his mood was getting too close to broody.

For once Alexander didn't try to act like he was too old for it. He spent a lot of time at his father's side that week, never letting him out of his sight, never sure who he was more afraid for. Especially after waking every other night from nightmares of the ambush having a drastically different outcome. Which made no sense considering that in reality Athanasius had come out of it completely untouched and unruffled.

Asking to learn how to fight didn't surprise his father one whit, and the boy meant real fighting this time, not just the swordplay he'd previously been, well, playing at. The man agreed on the proviso that he never fail to meet whatever exercise and fitness goals he set. That he do everything he was instructed to that purpose even if it meant standing still for hours at a time practicing a specific breathing pattern. And that he not discard any intellectual or artistic pursuits he'd picked up or would have the chance to pick up in the future.

The next two years passed in a whirlwind of activity physically and mentally taxing to an extent that would have driven most others of his age into the ground in a manner of hours. Not that he was ever told that, since he never asked his old man and never got a comment from others, as he didn't advertise it to anyone in the village. Not that he was all that inclined to natter about it when he was away from home. In fact, around the age of eleven he started to suffer from a growing tendency of being distracted by random and often not so random details that popped into his mind about whatever or whoever he happened to be looking at. Details he'd never seen or been told. Images and scenes that flashed into his mind without warning or consistency.

Some of them were really interesting, others were just plain embarrassing. Some were even gross.

When told of this new development, Athanasius gave his son a knowing smile and told him to remember everything that came to him but otherwise try not to let the "flashes of insight" interfere with his activities beyond asking him for any clarification he might need later, in private. An exercise in multitasking and focus, he called it, at least until he got older.

Alexander was way past the point where he gave more than an eyeroll to hearing the words "when you get older."

He was thankful that piece of weirdness didn't follow him home, even if he didn't quite understand the reason why. While there were still days of enforced time off, there was already much to occupy his mind and body there, more and more as the weeks went by. Everything from his endurance to his flexibility was stretched to the limit, then past it. Some of the more physically demanding work around the home and workshop went to him as well, but in limited amounts. His strength wasn't a prime focus yet, his father said, since he still had some growing to set in first. His speed was another matter though, reaching the point where he could almost keep up with Bob during light gallops. And his balance became good enough that he could stand on a half-inch thin stick indefinitely, either hopping from foot to foot or from stick to stick. Or both. He even reached the point where he could stand upside down on each individual finger for hours at a time.

There were some complaints about that last one being boring, and his father's response was as blunt as it was helpful. "Figure something out then, you're a smart lad." Alexander eventually decided on having an open tome or scroll on the ground right under his nose to read or write on. Or draw on, once he could balance without trembling from the effort. Either was a good enough pastime, regardless of whether his father was or wasn't randomly tossing acorns at him – to raise awareness, focus and patience all at once, or so he claimed.

Sometimes he wondered why he was ever glad for the existence of that particular oak near the spring.

It was only in the last three months before he turned thirteen that actual combat maneuvers came into the picture, though they didn't get to the point of even light sparring. Which might have been for the best come to think of it. Pankration was as effective as it was brutal. Alexander did ask why poking others in the eye or biting them was not allowed, especially since crushing or ripping… well, _those_, was fair game. His father explained that it would be a bad idea to have such actions ingrained in muscle memory when engaging something that wasn't human. Alexander was a bit perplexed over why anyone would even consider trying to use their bare hands during a hunt instead of just shooting whatever beast was being stalked. He even said as much. Athanasius noted that he never said that was what he meant. Either way, Athanasius shoved it in the "you'll understand when you're older" pile, which seemed to happen less and less as time went by, so at that point it was a bit of a surprise.

The man did make an offhand mention about Hercules and Theseus effectively laying the groundwork for Pankration when they took down the Nemean Lion and the Minotaur, but the boy wasn't sure if he was joking or not.

As for weapons, Alexander proved to be a good shot with the gastraphetes, but didn't appreciate the abysmally slow rate of fire and reload. Alas, he wasn't strong enough for a longbow, nor were his arms the correct size yet, plus he needed to build some more calluses first. The good kind. On the other hand, javelins flew accurately enough, and the Xyston worked for him at medium range, but he was still too young and short to do anything effective with the sarissa. Not surprising, considering that _that_ pike was longer than their house was tall. The dory was considerably easier to wield though.

That left swords. The kopis was proving to be enough for the moment, but he was equally comfortable with all different blade types his father had on hand. Broadswords, short swords, daggers, hunting knives, all of them. Well, almost. The two-handers were the only sore spot since he wasn't finished growing tall or heavy enough for them.

He would have loved to go beyond the stage of practice drills. But he'd agreed in the beginning to follow whatever instructions his father had for him without grumbled mutterings, so that was what he was going to do. Especially if it kept putting that proud smile on his father's face. He just wished he knew why it was turning more and more bittersweet every day. Athanasius sat at his bedside until he fell asleep most every evening, so he couldn't help but notice. That was the one part of their previous routine that had endured, in spite of everything else about the boy's life that had been going through changes, natural or otherwise. His mind and body included.

It was strange, then, that the evening right before he turned thirteen would be one when his father wouldn't be home. Being early January would ordinarily mean that they had even less of a reason than usual to venture out to the village. But he was helping deal with a nasty cholera epidemic that had hit Darovo just that week. Normally nothing like that would have happened, since the village wasn't a particularly poor one and there was enough clean drinking water that the risks of an outbreak were minor. Unfortunately, a detachment of soldiers due south had passed through on Tuesday and one of them had carried the germ.

Alexander yawned and turned on his side, pulling his blanket higher.

Really, what was it with stuff happening on Tuesdays? Assuming it really was a thing and not another one of those clichés that kept coming to him at the strangest times. Whatever in Tartarus the word cliché even meant. Maybe he should just ask his old man. Come to think of it, it was odd that it slipped his mind to do that the first time the word popped into his head, years before. He wasn't supposed to even have the _ability_ to forget things.

Oh heavens… tomorrow was his birthday _and_ a Tuesday! What was he going to do if weird stuff started happening? What if his father didn't make it home by morning? What if ruffians started to skulk around their property? What if they tried to rob them and there were too many for Alexander to scare off? What if he had to release Bob? What if Bob charged at the ruffians but one happened to have a torch and scared him off into the woods? What if Bob ran into a pack of wolves and got chased _back_ home and picked up a couple of bears and a bunch of wild boars along the way? What if they ended up trashing the whole property and him with it during the resulting stampede?

The boy blinked sleepily. Wait, what was his mind going on about? That was a silly thought even for him. Most of those animals were hibernating. And he'd apparently shut his eyes at some point. Huh.

Odds were higher that it would all just happen as normal. The awesome kind of normal that happened once a year. He'd wake up to his father sitting at his bedside and be given breakfast in bed, with one or more of those awesome golden cakes for dessert. Then spend the rest of his day enjoying the fine things in life, maybe with a nice new story or trip thrown in, if the winter sky stayed clear. Athanasius was a practical man most of the time, albeit a very thoughtful one when it came to his only son. But the twelfth of January was the one day in the year when he outright spoiled Alexander. Even the boy himself could admit to that.

Really, he should stop worrying. Any more of overworking his brain and he'd probably start to dream up some weird, totally different, crappy lifetime. Like one where… where he was the son of two drunks like some villager couples that would remain nameless. His life would be a long string of emotional and physical abuse intersped with social failure and putdowns. He'd be an outcast due to the resulting lack of self-esteem and backbone, and he'd probably make ties only with other social outcasts due to having no other options. And just to make it all read like something out of a hopeless tragedy Greek writers seemed to love so much, he'd lose one of his only two friends just as he "got older."

He supposed it was just as well that his friend lost his life to an out-of-this-world cause. As sick as it sounded made it easier to deal with his own crappy but nevertheless still normal, shitty life. Even if finding out about vampires and the supernatural in general was a big boot to the head in the metaphorical sense. Made more surreal by how a short, blonde cheerleader type turned out to be their one and only nemesis. It came across as a bit too out there even for someone used to apò mēkhanês theós.

Helping said short blonde fight evil and prevent the world's end became his new goal in life, since it was the better alternative to going at it on his own. After the whole staking of Jessie episode, he hated vampires too much just to let things go. He may or may not have poured his resentment of his 'parents' and everything else messed up in his life into that hatred of vampires. Not like it mattered, since hatred was already unhealthy.

The year that followed was… complicated. Full of a feeling of accomplishment after basically saving the life of the world's heroine, and the bittersweet mood resulting from how she continuously trampled on his feelings for her without even realizing she was doing it. It wouldn't have been so bad if her 'soulmate' was anything other than a demon-reanimated corpse that presumably couldn't do CPR but could still somehow use his lungs to talk.

He felt like a heel for internally disparaging Buffy's feelings like that, and that he never really found himself returning Willow's feelings for him made him feel like even more of a heel. Buffy and she thought he was clueless when it came to that. What a riot. Not that he ever gave them a reason to believe otherwise. If he had, Buffy would have probably been a bit more discreet when giving her 'advice' to Willow on what to dress as for Halloween 1997.

As it was, he had no problem observing their private chat from the corner of his eye, despite splitting his attention between that and browsing for a costume. He may not have been able to hear the words, but it was simple to deduce that Buffy was trying to persuade Willow to don something provocative in the hopes that it would catch Xander's eye. Maybe it would work, but Xander doubted it. On Buffy, sure. On any other good-looking girl too, probably. Even Cordelia. But Willow… not so much. It was kind of unfair to her that his hormonal teenager-ness was somehow blind to Willow's wiles, but he had no idea how to change that or even if he should.

Sighing, Xander Harris decided to just tune them out completely, find a cheap costume and go. Since he and Buffy had already talked out the whole "getting saved from Larry by a girl" issue, that was okay right? Or just part of a costume. Five dollars didn't give him much hope in that regard. Bloody Snyder troll and him enlisting them as chaperones for a bunch of kids.

He briefly considered one of the toy rifles. He still had a pair of his uncle's military fatigues at home, so he could probably go as a soldier. But after one last walk around the store, his eyes fell on an item that stirred up old memories, from before Jessie had… died. Of them both sitting side by side, leaning against the couch in the middle of a veritable sea of fabric, cardboard cutouts, bits of plastic and sewing supplies.

It was an eye in the middle of a grey star with meandering spikes all around. A sword dominated the background, standing straight, tip-down, as if it had been driven through the top of the vigilant eye like Excalibur through the Stone. The silverish paint around the seams even looked like the filigree that would adorn the real thing.

Hesitating, he reached for it and pulled it off the slightly above eye-level shelf. It was made of ether rubber or something else painted in acrylic, but he could definitely work with it.

"Can I help you young man?"

"GAH!"

"-. .-"

Surprisingly enough, being an acquaintance of Rupert Giles got him a discount with the creepy shopkeeper. Xander had been tempted to quip about something extra being owed him for the years the old guy scared off his life by sneaking up on him like that. But in the end the teenager figured that getting a plastic sword along with the stick-on heraldry was a really sweet deal for five bucks.

Avoiding his parents once he got home (for once it was easy with both of them already passed out in the living room), he went straight to the basement and started rifling through the boxes there. He finally found the one he wanted up on a high shelf. That was right, he'd put it there because it took a chair or stepladder to reach it, so it would be less likely to be taken by Tony Harris to the junk yard or pawn shop.

Once the box had been relocated to the floor, Xander Harris opened it and beheld the cosplay costume inside with mixed feelings. He and Jesse had worked on it when they were both thirteen. For months. Willow had been a bit put out for being left out of everything, but she'd been out of town with her parents that summer so she didn't hold it against them for long.

All three of them had been really passionate about that board game, even if they never got around to roping enough other guys or girls to form an RPG group. It was made for a smaller body size but since most of the components were strap-on armor pieces, no one would be able to tell. And the coat was already adult-sized.

The concept art depicted the dragonscale coat as a white, longcoat-looking piece of armor. It had been the hardest part to make by far, but they managed to pull it off by making a few modifications to a bathrobe and then soaking it in white primer. Once it was dry, they spent two days carefully stretching and folding the fabric bit by bit so that the hard crust broke in such a way that it actually looked like it was made from reptilian scales if you didn't stare too long or too closely.

The armor set didn't include the mail shirt it was supposed to, but a blouse would do well enough under the coat and the whole thing did include a breastplate. It was made of sown-together plastic 'panels' cut off the sides of plastic water canisters, with white fabric glued on top. Along with the shin and forearm guards, it had been soaked in white paint. The same sword-in-the-eye-in-the-star heraldry decorated the chest.

They'd been very meticulous when drawing it, even using a paper collage to help them along.

Looking around and judging the basement spacious enough, Xander spread a tarp on the floor and set about finally finishing the costume that had always been "missing something." He dusted off the coat, then he spread it over the tarp, inside-down, and applied the stick-on symbol to the back. Then he gave it a once-over and nodded in satisfaction. Even if the glue was second-rate, it should stay on for that one evening at least.

That done, he sent a silent prayer for his departed friend, and a thanks to Jessie's parents for having hosted them during the entire process.

After that, it was time to suit up and head out. A dark blouse and black jeans would substitute for the underarmor well enough, he thought.

It didn't take long to put everything on, and while the coat did feel rather stiff, especially around the arms, it loosened up quite well by the time he finally arrived as Casa de Summers. Giving himself a final once-over and lamenting the lack of a helmet, the teenager rung the doorbell and waited.

Joyce Summers answered the door and looked surprised at his appearance, but not in a bad way. Score one for the geek race. "A fair greeting to you, fair woman!" he bowed to her. "It is now beyond clear whence your daughter inherited her fine features."

"Hello Xander," Buffy's mother greeted. "My, you look dashing. I have to say this is one approach to the white knight theme I haven't seen before." She looked bemused, if anything, but still didn't grimace at the sight of him so he probably didn't look too horrible. "Come inside. Buffy and Willow will be right down."

The teenager internally winced at the spoken invitation but entered and followed her to the living room, where the staircase also happened to be located. Buffy came down soon after and, Xander had to admit, she really pulled off the eighteenth century noblewoman look. He almost went on a rant about Buffy, mistress of Buffonia and how he was thoroughly renouncing spandex in favor of worshipping her pink dress instead, but he remembered to stay in character just in the nick of time. "And there she is, the magnificent Lady Elizabeth!" He moved forward and reached out, placing a kiss on the back of her hand before she got over his appearance. He had to count his victories, no matter how small. "So wonderful to at last meet you in the flesh."

Buffy recovered from the surprise and curtsied. Pretty successfully too. "Why thank you, good sir." She pursed her lips, obviously trying to figure out what or who he was supposed to be. And maybe how to say it without breaking character. She looked a bit odd with the black wig though. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"Indeed?" He was going to push this as far as he could. "Forgive me, it is ever such a surprise _not_ to be immediately recognized. Quite refreshing actually." He bowed again, more flamboyantly than before. "Lord Inquisitor Alexander, at your service." He straightened. "Though I do think we can dispense with that title for just one night."

Buffy looked at him intently, then sighed and shook her head. "Sorry Xander. It's on the tip of my tongue but I just can't figure out who you're supposed to be."

Not surprising. "No worries, Buffster!" he gave her his trademark grin to put her at ease. "It's just a guy from a board game me, Willow and Jessie used to be into. Don't worry about it."

"Oh!" She pointed at him, racking her brain. "No! I know this! Willow told me about it! It was… It's…" She snapped her fingers. "That's it! The… DAS! The DAS, right?" She scowled at his snickering. "Or something…?"

He laughed. "Thedas, Buffy. The-Das. Though you weren't too off-base calling it what you did. That was the way the developers referred to it during the early stages. It's an acronym for The Dragon Age Setting." And he'll shut up now before he starts sounding like too much of a nerd. Huh. Buffy's mom had vanished at some point during their talk. Damn. Crazy Summers women and their ninja skills.

"Sounds interesting, Xander." Then she realized how it sounded. "Seriously. It does." Then she looked up the stairs, probably hearing something with her Slayerness. "Great! Here comes Willow! Perfect timing!"

Perfect timing to dispel awkwardness, Xander assumed wryly.

So, naturally, awkwardness would return under a different guise. "Hey Willow! Nice boo you have there!"

Buffy sighed. "Lord Inquisitor, allow me to present you Casper."

"Sorry Buffy," Casper mumbled. "I was going to… but it's just not me!"

What followed once they finally left Buffy's house wasn't quite as horrible as Buffy or Willow must have expected. Xander himself actually found a way to enjoy his task, teaching his flock of kids how to milk the most candy off the houses they visited. He usually found a way to enjoy or at least be neutral to whatever he was roped into doing. A psychological survival skill if ever there was one, given the environment he'd been brought up in.

He didn't feel it when the world shuddered.

Literally shuddered.

Xander didn't immediately notice anything actually. He didn't notice the kids-turned-monsters as they started to rave, scream, run and growl all over the place. He was too busy gasping and trying to keep the ground away, and it was getting harder every second. He had no clue when he'd fallen to all fours. He knew why he'd ended up like that, though. It was like he'd just been thrown into a pressure chamber, like something was pushing on his mind inward from every direction, trying to crush him or shunt his soul aside, but whatever was supposed to take its place was missing.

Finally losing the battle with gravity, he fell on his right shoulder and used the last of his strength to push over until he was face-up on the sidewalk. His breath came in harsh gasps and his hearing was awash with the sound of running river water that wasn't. His sight was impossibly clear, but the same could not be said of anything else in the world. For a moment he thought he could imagine the idea of other people, but the next instant it was all gone. All he was aware of was the panic-inducing sensation that he'd just… he'd just been bitten into by some beast that had no idea what to do next. As if it wanted to devour everything about him but had no concept of chewing.

Then the sky split open.

The world cried out. The sky churned with the warp's madness beneath the stars, wails and bleats filling the air, all coming from beasts of horror never conceived by sapient mind. Not man, or anything else alive.

He should probably have reacted to all that, but he didn't get the change to even consider doing more than think how the split didn't look even the slightest bit like The Breach before he was torn away. Literally torn away. His body stayed right where it was but it didn't matter anymore. By that stage it was no more part of him than anything else substantial.

It either lasted for a moment or an eternity, that sensation of hurtling, of being tossed through time and space. Of being swung around, washed aside and at once swallowed by currents of inhuman willpower and discarded thought. For a large part of it he felt like he was drowning in a pool of misery, and again he couldn't tell if it was a short or long time before that changed. He thought he could hear, feel or see others floating in the din of sorrow, a river of lost souls damned to unending torment. Then it was gone, along with whatever part of him had been stabbed through by the hook of despair churning under the jagged rays of unleashed chaos. There were other hooks though. Or were there? What was it… who was he? He was… someone?

What was someone? What did it mean…

Then, all of a sudden, there was light.

And silence.

And, finally, understanding. Even if it wasn't his. Whoever he was. He was someone? He was… being engulfed in light and pulled away from everything, a world nearly poisoned and a god gone mad.

Janus. The god of doors. The god of beginnings and transitions. Well, he'd really transitioned himself right into this one, thought the guest. Chaos had been the goal of the mage calling on his power, and in his glee to impact the world, if indeed gods even felt such things as humans saw them, he answered the call and empowered the magic.

The spell was unpolished but the concept and intent behind it quite a novelty. Most of the costumes could be empowered just by tapping into what already existed, or taking a glimpse into what could have been. It was simple enough to reach a tendril of awareness through elsewhen and give the costumes life for the night. But there were some that evoked identities that did not really exist in the multiverse. Easy enough to craft some temporary ones based on whatever fiction they spawned from. Yet some costumes were of people who were _real_, even if not part of that specific dimension.

A tendril of will made fluid wrapped around Alexander Lavelle Harris the moment the spell washed over the town. Not finding enough of a path, it reached across the planet and connected to the soul of the one who had created The Dragon Age Setting. Rather unimaginative name, that. Though "created" wasn't as accurate as "remembering." Thedas, as the setting was called, was actually three parts imagination and three parts marketing appeasement loaded onto a single grain of truth. A memory of a soul who lived through a sky-splitting, world-spanning conflict in a universe far removed. A memory that had stayed with him in the form of a piece of an idea.

The god of doors reached through the void as only he and few other powers ever dared, knowing where and when to look thanks to the history written all over the soul of a simple board game lore writer.

Just as he was about to relive the nightmare, Alexander Harris was abruptly pulled out of that translation of a memory. Memory belonging to a being altogether different from him. Or perhaps not altogether. His own memory and sense of self snapped back into place all at once. There was light around him, a globe of… something amidst colors and shapes he could not describe, taking him somewhere he couldn't control. Chaos was running rampant beyond the shield, but the split in the world was gone, and flames were burning whatever was left of the horrors that had spilled, bringing calm and healing all that had been ripped asunder. Echoes of terror calmed under a firm will altogether new, while remnants of warp and fade beasts were burned to nothing by light and veilfire.

The orb of lighting-suffused light surrounding him dissipated. Xander found himself on an endless white… shoulder?

The teenager blanched and looked up… and up at the vaguely head-shaped mass of fiery thunder as big as a mountain. After blinking a few times as slowly as possible and confirming that the hallucination was still there, he looked further outward. The… person? Whose shoulder he was standing on had their other arm, their left one, outstretched, palm on the surface of a white orb of force filled with teal-white fire. There was something inside, he noticed. Or rather someone.

Seemed like Janus had run afoul of rather more chaos than he could handle. Xander didn't know where that insight came from, but he knew it to be true. Then he knew something or someone was behind him so he turned around just in time to be addressed by a low, rich voice that practically radiated sanctity.

"Hello, young one."

It was deep and serene. Xander couldn't imagine it belonging to anyone or anything evil. It was such a relief that he almost swayed on his feet. For a while there he thought he'd landed in Hell, before he suddenly couldn't think of anything at all. Maybe he wasn't scheduled for eternal suffering just yet.

Contrary to what he would have expected, it wasn't a person there, but a floating blob. Wait, no that wasn't right. Now that the light wasn't blinding him he could see it was actually a symbol of some sort. Like a line that interlocked on itself until it looked like a strange knot with no end nor a beginning. And it was flat.

"Uhm…" Well. Hell of a way to respond to… whoever or whatever they were. "Hi." Silence. "Am I dead?"

"For a definition of dead, I am afraid so." The Dara Celtic Knot hovering in front of him turned slightly around its center. "The self-defined god of doors had an active hold on you when his actions backfired on him. In the ensuing madness he tried to pull on himself in order to escape the worst of the consequences. But the warp is insidious and his awareness was already failing. He did not differentiate between his own being and those things still connected to him. Your soul was wrenched from the rest of you and torn to pieces as it was hurled through the Chaos he invited."

Xander blanched and felt like he was going to keel over at any moment.

"I had to reach through time and pluck you from the twisting nether just before you were lost. You are as whole as you can be under the circumstances."

The teenager managed to stay on his feet, but only barely. "What _happened_?"

"Many humans believe that all fictional universes exist somewhere, but that is not actually true. Just as the theory of infinite parallel realities is untrue. After all, there would be no free will if all sapients were essentially forced to make every possible decision in the grand scheme of things." The symbol shrunk until it was the size of a pendant and the light took a tall, vaguely humanoid form. "Many settings do have their basis in something real, however. Like a certain board game in this particular dimension which came about due to the main writer being the reincarnated soul of one of the men who was a soldier during a certain crisis. Most of the settings and the majority of characters are inventions of that one man and whoever worked with him on the lore, but beyond the elsewhen there _is_ a world of Blight and Dragons." Amusement flickered through the air. "Or there was a time when it could be described that way at least."

Xander Harris gaped in stupefaction and fell back on the armchair whose sudden appearance he was too stunned to mull over.

"Alas, 'Thedas' is just one world in that dimension, shielded from the rest of the galaxy by a fold in space-time. The Fade you are familiar with was a warp pocket curled on itself so that it the planet may remain completely insulated from the rest of the chaos there. Had Janus bothered to, shall we say, look in his own backyard before reaching across the fence, he might have realized that the initial lore writers for a certain other board game originated from that same dimension. Then he might have known better than to open a passage and look in."

With all the worded hints coming, Xander didn't even have to wrack his brain to figure out that Thedas was a planet from the Warhammer 40K universe. "Oh my god…" Janus had torn a passage straight into the warp. No wonder everything almost went to hell in a handbasket.

"Worry not. There is no universe where things are as bleak as humans depicted it there. So-called 'grimdarkness' of that caliber never actually comes to pass without someone doing something about it. The universe where the original 'inventor' of that setting once lived is not and never has been in such dire straits." The featureless god moved as if to look around the settling Ether they were in. "Nonetheless, the warp and the ruinous powers exist there. Those that endure in any case. Had Janus not been specifically looking for me, I would not have noticed the rift so quickly and stepped in to close it in time to prevent permanent damage on this end." The god's gaze pinned some far-off spot and Xander could feel an intensity he hadn't sensed from him before. "The consequences would have been terrible, as there is something in this branch of Creation that could be worse than the so-called Chaos Gods if released."

Holy crap. The Inquisitor was real, sort of. And he'd ascended to some sort of godhood at some point, sort of. And he was saying that Xander's dimension had _big issues._

Xander felt numb. Wasn't there some sort of technique to these things? Something about not dropping every possible bomb all at once? Then he caught up with the last thing said there. "The Old Ones…"

"No." The unknown god turned to behold him again. "Their originator." He looked away again, searching with sight beyond sight for something. "The Dragon of Revelation. The Seven Who Are One, The Imprisoned One, etcetera." He actually said it, etcetera. Who actually says etcetera? "Best if we not mention the real name here, while Chaos still lingers." He shook his head. "I cannot sense where the prison might be at all. The history of the world says it was banished eons ago into the far reaches of space. Likely it is not even located in the local cluster of galaxies but I cannot say for certain. My reach is limited here." He glanced at the orb where Janus was being… treated? It was strange, considering that the big him was still him.

Or something.

"Regardless…" The god turned back to him and Xander suddenly felt like, for the first time, he had all of that being's attention. "Certain matters are more pressing."

Somehow, he didn't think he was going to like what was coming next any more than the stuff already mentioned.


	3. Chapter 2: Backtracking

**A/N: **This should answer most outstanding questions. I'll be waiting to hear who of you liked it and who thought this was too out there even for a Buffy X-Over.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Backtracking**

"-. .-"

Xander would have said his brain was spinning with all the information that had just been dumped in his lap, but he wasn't exactly corporeal at the moment. And what would the G-man say if he heard him use a word like corporeal? Probably something about bloody American teenagers not being completely hopeless after all.

Maybe.

Then again, the recently deceased teenager couldn't really tell the difference between how things felt when he was alive and… well, _now_. Maybe it was for the best, considering what the no-longer-just-Inquisitor had told him.

Not quite yet willing to think over everything that had happened in the last few subjective hours, the former Scooby decided to break the silence. "What exactly are we doing?"

The god glanced back at him. He had taken the form of a muscled, broad-shouldered giant of a man with white hair and short-cropped beard. But somehow he didn't look frightening. Especially with the modern, if unusually patterned, shirt, pants and boots he was wearing, all three as white as everything else on him. The white overcoat reminded Xander uncannily of the dragonscale armor he'd been wearing when he geeked his way into disaster, but it was made of a soft, flowing material instead of leather or scale mail. "Believe it or not, giving you all the time in Eternity to come to terms with everything I've told you actually is the primary goal."

Xander felt really touched by that, assuming it wasn't just a lie to make him feel better.

"I do not lie." The teenager did a double take and was met by two, serious blue eyes. They matched the no-nonsense tone perfectly. "Do keep in mind that I do not _need_ to travel in this manner to perform fact-finding."

"Oh." Xander winced. "Okay then, s-"

"Now I _know_ that you're not going to actually apologize for a slip whose blame lies entirely with issues you developed due to the actions of someone other than yourself."

His mouth snapped closed and the recently deceased teenager looked away, unsure if the hot, feathery feeling in his chest was embarrassment or something else.

The Inquisitor returned his gaze to the path ahead and Xander relaxed. He brushed aside a falling leaf as he followed along. Like everything else, every blade of grass and grain of sand, it was suspended, frozen in time. Xander was moderately sure that stopped time should have rendered him at the very least blind, due to light no longer moving, but he wasn't going to complain.

The god was walking slightly ahead of him and keeping a firm rein on his perception, allowing him to see and feel everything as if he were still a being of flesh and blood. He knew he should probably be a bit more excited or at least mindful of his surroundings. A dirt path it may have been, but rather than Earth it was located on a planet on the other side of the Milky Way.

Alas, the wonder of journeying through space and then through large, grey rings from planet to planet had worn off quite quickly. Xander appreciated how the Inquisitor took him along in order to give him time to come to terms with his situation in his own time. He was honestly grateful for that, considering that the guy really didn't owe him anything, especially since he'd had to suddenly jump over from his very own dimension in order to save this one from going down the drain when Janus did whatever he did.

Xander Harris just wished he hadn't ended up in that situation in the first place. A situation dismal enough to warrant such care. Wasn't being almost destroyed by an impulsive Roman God enough?

Apparently not.

The matters that were "more pressing" had been revealed to be a lot more serious and surreal that anything Xander would have imagined. It wasn't just the galaxy that had issues. It turned out that Xander _himself_ had issues. And they extended well beyond the insecurities and trauma inflicted upon him by a crappy home life. They originated before his childhood, before his birth even. They were fully on the head of some Terran Power who'd messed with his soul in-between embodiments and drained it of something critical. Something without which he wasn't even half the person he should have been, shitty parents or no. It was why he had the inexplicable certainty that he could take on anything and win, or at least survive, no matter how little logical sense it made. It was why he had warrior's instincts and urges but lacked any and all combat talent and focus that should have accompanied them.

Instead of shock he'd gone through denial first. Then he was summarily shown a confrontation between two ancient swordsmen, two of many who beheaded others of their kind with distressing regularity and invariably proceeded to get zapped by a lightning storm after each duel. Lightning storm that came out of the loser's severed neck, as if everything else in his life and afterlife didn't already make absolutely no sense.

The stages of grief were quite readily put back on track after that. Shock at the sight was first. Second was denial that he could possibly be one of those people. That insecurity, the self-deprecation was the only part of his personality that was caused by Xander Harris' treatment at his parents' hands. The god had been very clear on that point. Then came the anger at learning how badly he'd been screwed over. He didn't quite understand what the whole deal with Immortals was, and he didn't care much yet, especially since the rest of his kind seemed to have no better idea of why and how they existed than he did. What _did_ make him clench his fists and gnash his teeth was the knowledge that he'd somehow been robbed of that part of his soul that the other immortals possessed. The Quickening as they called it, though the Inquisitor said it was really an unusual manifestation of something known as the Vril.

Xander didn't give two sticks about what the name really was. He was too incensed over having been robbed of it and how the resulting imbalance in his spirit was responsible for him being an impulsive half-wit. Never mind the instant healing and immortality that came with the first death. And to make matters worse, he apparently wasn't the only one that had been screwed over in that manner. The being who'd stolen that essence and left him unbalanced seemed to have made it a habit of doing that, of draining the Quickening from those of his kind. The Inquisitor didn't know who it was, which empyrean side-dimension they were hiding in between thefts and what they were doing with the Quickenings, or anything else. Not while using scrying means that would still allow him to remain undetected from everyone in this "branch of Creation."

The Inquisitor hadn't yet decided if he was going to stay and get overtly involved apparently. When Xander said he thought he should do it, the god cautioned him not to make such requests or suggestions when emotions were running high. After all, Xander might later reach the conclusion that the "interloper" wasn't trustworthy or likeable enough for it after all.

Even in spite of how well the tracks had been covered, though, the god could deduce stuff damn well just from looking at a person's or place's history. The teenager rather suspected the guy had already "read" the history of the whole world.

Violent or otherwise painful deaths apparently always resulted in the first resurrection. The soul never crossed over because the person's will to live fanned the spark into a flame, or something like that. The thief couldn't reach the physical universe independently. When the soul did cross over, though, the bastard always swooped in. That meant that he or she routinely crippled the souls of pre-immortals who died of old age and, more often, those pre-immortals and immortals who got beheaded by someone or something other than another Immortal.

As an icing on the cake, the thief also did their best to steal Quickening during the aftermath of duels. It reached through the fold caused by the soul crossing over and drained as much of the resulting Vril release as possible. It was why the winners never gained the full, undiluted experience of the loser, and why Dark Quickenings sometimes occurred. When the loser was longer-lived than the winner, there was enough experience and power to displace some of the winner's own essence. If left alone the displacement would correct itself and the loser's history would be experienced without spiritual and psychological consequences. Well, none worse than those that naturally came with the act of taking a life. But things weren't left alone, so shit invariably happened instead.

Truthfully the loser wasn't supposed to really _lose_ his experiences either. According to Xander's rescuer, the Quickening had been designed (yes, _designed_) by a higher power to manifest and react the way it did. Ironically, it was a measure meant to dissuade Immortals from going after their own kind. After all, you couldn't really stay a bad guy if you suddenly experienced the full life of a saint you just murdered. And if you were a good guy, you weren't likely to want to murder your kin in the first place.

Given the existence of "The Game" whose origins no one knew, Xander wouldn't be surprised if the thief had somehow invented it specifically so that it would have more and more opportunities to steal that power for themselves. "Live long and well never lacking in opportunities and companionship" suddenly became "Kill as many of your own kind as possible because 'in the end, there can be only one.'"

You'd think the whole "never fight on holy ground" thing would clue someone in.

"Do you have a name?" Okay, so it came a bit out of left field, and that should have been one of the first things he asked. But it wasn't like the guy had offered up a name himself.

"Yes."

Xander rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the smile entirely. Well-timed bad jokes like that one were something he knew well. He often used them himself. "Will you _please_ give me a name?"

The Inquisitor slowed his pace until they were side by side and looked down at him, face completely straight. "Don't you already have a couple?"

He groaned. He couldn't help it. "Okay, that was just awful. Not to mention you just committed assault and battery upon mankind's every attempt at originality ever."

"True names have power, and were I to utter mine here, even without someone to hear, I would become as much part of this branch of Creation as where I come from. A title would not carry the same weight, but it would not entirely lack it either. I have no plan to get myself entangled into anything just yet." He peered at Xander, who couldn't quite wrap his mind around that. "Or rather I will retroactively become involved in events here in a rather specific fashion at some point in my subjective future. However, I only left myself enough clues to know not to go looking too closely into said history-spanning future activities, insofar as anything I do can be described as subject to linear chronology. I suppose you could say that when I was forced to intervene and manifest in this reality, I was, in fact, already here." Xander could almost feel his grey matter spasm with a sudden episode of hiccups. His brain couldn't even begin to wrap itself around all of _that_. "It has to do with Eternity and the notion of circumstantial simultaneity. Don't worry about it."

"… I take back everything I said about you and human originality."

"I fear those statements of yours bear little relevance," The large man grinned. "Man's attempts at originality do not necessarily mean anything to me, do they? After all, I am no mere man, and for all you know I never was."

Xander almost let his incredulity shine through but stopped himself. Most gods in mythology and other fiction could take whatever shape they wanted. More importantly, there was never a "canon" inquisitor. Game masters and players were allowed to settle on whatever race they wanted from the four available ones specified in the rulebook. The person he was walking next to looked like a man now, but it was true there was no way of knowing if he'd ever really been one, or if he'd started out as an elf or kossith. Or dwarf, though Xander couldn't see how one would ascend to godhood when dwarves had no aptitude for magic to speak of.

And there he went with the geektasticness. Xander shook his head and twisted his lips in a frown, then cringed the rest of the way. No matter how he looked at it he'd geeked his way into dying. Almost been annihilated completely. And while the one who'd so generously saved him hadn't even slightly alluded to it, Xander was well aware he was at least partially responsible for the world almost going to hell. He should have just left that costume in its box, to be forgotten and thrown away or burned. He could have easily gone as a soldier but instead he'd just _had_ to go and overcompensate and now…

A pair of strong hands descended on both shoulders and nearly drove him to the ground. "Alexander."

That single word derailed his train of thought completely. Xander allowed himself a few moments to appreciate the beauty of the resulting mental trainwreck, then jolted in place – geez, his mind was a strange place these days – and stared up at the man who'd just called out to him.

That narrow-eyed gaze was intense. "Some of your kind develop foresight, it's true. But you did _not _have the ability due to the events you now know. But lad." The expression softened into… something. "Even If you did develop that kind of foresight, that power would not be able to take into account anything outside this cosmogony. You would have been blind to this potential outcome regardless."

That… didn't really make him feel any better. And wait… it basically added another entry on the list of things he should have been able to do but couldn't because some bastard deity had leeched the best he had to offer to the world.

He couldn't even seem to acknowledge death and react to it properly. He'd _died_ and even so he wasn't going to see any peace because of everything that was wrong. He was all _wrong _by his rescuer's own admission. Even if that hadn't been the case, Xander would have noticed it himself. One did _not_ die and almost get their soul consigned to oblivion and then act alike… whatever he'd been acting like ever since.

"Alexander."

Again the name. Huh. He'd dropped his eyes at some point and was staring at the odd pendant the guy wore. Blinking, he looked up in response to the call and gave himself a shake. "Sorry! Sorry, I'm…" He tried to step away but found he wasn't allowed. "I'm keeping you from your… fact-finding." He wasn't sure what kind of look he aimed at the larger man next but he wasn't allowed to back off even then. No surprise. Tall, broad and wise clearly knew Xander needed the contact and support, even if he didn't admit it himself.

There was a sad huff from the man-shaped god. "I've already seen all I need to see in order to know that this galaxy is in dire straits, along with various others in the local cluster and beyond. Even without absolute discernment I would be able to ascertain that much from looking at its relatively recent history alone."

It begged the question of what could be considered "recent" history. "You're being awfully vague about everything."

"I said I never lie, not that I was going to provide every bit of information you think of asking about."

"Ah." Xander sighed. He should have expected that really.

"Don't be like that," he chided gently. "Would _you_ tell a young and innocent boy or girl how a country several borders away is being ravaged by the bubonic plague? Would _you_ describe exactly how the gangrene builds on the toes and lips? The muscle cramps? The seizures they go through and how they constantly vomit blood? Would you give them a play by play of how the sickening, painful lymph gland swellings build up everywhere from the groin to the neck?"

Xander shut his eyes and swallowed against the bad case of churning stomach he'd suddenly developed. Either dying had given him a better imagination, or whatever the guy was doing to his non-existent senses was helping him visualize things in disgustingly exquisite detail.

The former Inquisitor aimed his sight at the horizon then. "I would have a better idea of what could be done in the grand scheme of things if I actually knew where to look for the ultimate source of every large disaster. As it is, I can either take more overt measures or leave things well enough alone and go back home. Either could turn out to be the wiser course of action."

Whatever warm feeling was building around Xander's heart faded, replaced by a bitterness he could almost taste at the back of his throat. It fit with the way his life had gone. The better something was, the bigger the setup for the inevitable disappointment.

"Alexander!" This time it really was a reproach. A sharp rebuke if ever there was one. It made him jerk in place and realize he'd dropped his gaze to the ground. He looked up again. "Listen to me very carefully." That voice came out clipped and slow and the look was stern, at odds with what the man said next. Or maybe it wasn't. "You're going to be alright."

The teenager blinked at the direct, even-toned declaration.

"You are going to be alright, even if it means I have to take you home with me." Xander was pretty sure he would have been floored if not for those two hands on his shoulders. And Big White was still talking. "In case you missed it, I'm the one that saved you from oblivion. That means I'm responsible for you now."

"Uhm…" Xander said dumbly. "Okay?" Right, very of the smooth. But honestly, what did someone say to something like that? Unless he meant that he was going to keep a sharp eye on him from now on because he was responsible for making sure Xander didn't proceed to go off the deep end and –

"Oh, that's _it!_ You're getting a hug right now."

"-. .-"

"You'll understand when you get older" his father had said on so many occasions. With his mind floating in and out in that place just between the waking world and the dream, Alexander felt totally cheated. He understood everything he previously didn't, and at the same time he felt like he understood precisely jack shit.

He thought of waking up – a vague sense of warmth on his brow – and the remembrance came again to the fore.

It was some time after the very narrowly averted pity party that Xander understood how, instead of accepting the reality of his situation, he had fallen straight into the trap of resignation. It was a subtle difference, but an important one according to his impromptu teacher. One allowed the possibility of rising above the predicament, the other didn't. Score yet another point in the "things I learned too late" pile. That thought had earned him a flick on the forehead.

Alexander remembered what was coming next even before the flashback reached that stage.

_"I think it's time we discussed your options."_

He remembered now. He'd been so wary of trusting a hope at the time, but the pessimism proved unnecessary. Granted, there was one point when he felt like he was fate's spittoon – _coming back to life as Xander Harris is the one option I strongly recommend against_ – but even the poorly educated slacker could understand the explanation why. The chaos vortex had been closed in the physical plane almost immediately, but it affected a broader stretch of space-time in both the higher and lower layers of reality. The Small and Big Bad of the universe were literally sniffing at a chance to use the breach to sneak back into the world. Between that and the nature of all things touched by the Warp, even the smallest act would have massively overblown, chaotic consequences until time advanced past that period.

Learning that the Harrises got him cut off from life support so quickly had been depressingly predictable.

The whole idea was made worse by the fact that Alexander Harris was a big name – surprises never ceased – after he found a way around the high-profile prophecy of Buffy's death. The Powers that Be were likely going to make his life difficult if he popped back to life without explanation, at the very least due to at least some of them agreeing with his own earlier assumption that he was responsible for the barely averted calamity. And there was the strong possibility that one of said powers was the bastard that had been systematically going the way of the soul vampire on him and his kind.

Yeah. Bad idea to get them up in arms and/or distracted from their actual job of keeping the Old Ones and their daddy at least somewhat at bay. Alexander had the vague notion that his father could take them on and win, maybe take on even seven-headed Big Bad dragon and win. The odds of it happening without wrecking the planet and the surrounding space-time continuum weren't too great though.

The option of being resurrected in a new body on another planet was considered. But with how things were in the galaxy, it didn't appeal to the teenager at all, since he didn't want to be just another bystander. Being reincarnated as someone important was brought up in jest, but in that case he may as well do it on Earth instead.

The final nail in the coffin of his indecision was the most blatant: there was just too much he wanted to do. He wanted to reconnect with his friends, one way or another. He wanted to do something about the other Immortals and "The Game." There was the matter of his unbalanced soul and what he wanted done about that. Big White could call on the Vril to charge him up, but getting back exactly what was taken from him was preferable by far. Especially since he wasn't going to recover his past lives' memories without it.

There was no way he could play catch-up on all those fronts even if he could safely go back to the moment when Ethan's spell went off, let alone if he were to suddenly wake up in his own coffin the moment the stretch of chaotic space-time finally passed on. He could almost see the notices on the Sunnydale billboard: Get Ready for the shovel-less shoveller! Upward grave digging with no benefits!

The dream was growing brighter, as if the sun was coming up and penetrating the haze beneath his eyelids. Alexander wasn't in a rush anymore though. He watched and remembered the long talk of back then, if indeed the future could be seen as a past event. Only now did he realize what his now-father had done: guided him through the pros and cons of every choice until he talked _himself_ into seeing what was right in front of him.

He needed anonymity and he needed _time_.

With the perspective of a whole lifetime behind him, cut short or not, Alexander was amazed at how supportive the big guy had been throughout all of that. How sincere, up to the very end when he stood up and, with an arm around Xander's shoulders, launched into the air and flew them both straight into the nearest sun.

Maybe someday his old man would deign to explain what that was about.

The last haze of sleep receded and Alexander's eyes slid slowly open. Light was streaming in his bedroom, never actually reaching even mid-way through, since it was facing south rather than East or West. He took his time blinking, dimly registering an appetizing smell floating from somewhere nearby. It was enough to get his other senses into gear – so _that's_ where all the strange words and phrases came from – which was when he understood where that warm sensation on his brow had come from in the dream.

He reached up and took a hold of the hand there, which responded and clasped around his fingers. Alexander had never before appreciated more just how careful his father probably had to be every time they came into physical contact like this.

"That's not entirely true," came the voice from his bedside. The hand moved his until they were comfortably relaxed near the side of the bed. "This body is only about as strong as my original one was when I was still a mortal."

At last turning his head, Alexander looked at his father. He was a nostalgic sight, reminding him of the first memory he had from this life. The man was sitting at his bedside and there was even a food tray on a stool within arm's reach. Not that the newly-turned-teenager paid that any mind. He was too occupied with the implications of his newly returned memories and, despite himself, disbelief was what won out and managed to surface in his expression. "You…" – _I'll make sure you have a proper upbringing this time – _"When you said that last thing you said when…"

"Very eloquent of you, son."

He jerked his head to clear it. "No! I mean yes! Dammit!" He breathed in and thought before he spoke this time. "When you… I thought you'd just…"

"Foist you on some random couple somewhere?"

Ouch. Way to make it sound like the worst insult ever, Alexander, very of the tactful. Once he was finished wincing, the boy dared meet his father's eyes again. He was relieved to see only the usual patient amusement. So, naturally, that was when another thought popped into his head and made short work of the tiny bit of suspension of disbelief that was still hanging by that thread over there, near the edge of his brain. "Wait! What year is it?"

"Noticed that, did you?" In an uncharacteristic move, Athanasius did not answer. Instead, he handed him the food tray. "Try not to choke on the cakes, eh?"

With the benefit of a decade's worth of experience, young eyes zeroed in on the golden sponge confectionaries as soon as they came into view. Before he even formed a thought he grabbed and stuffed one in his mouth with a sigh of bliss.

"And here I thought I'd taught you better."

"Smorchy." Alexander froze at the slip. That did not sound like "sorry" at all. When he tried to swallow everything in one go he choked and had to take some time to get things back in the right pipe. There was much fatherly back rubbing involved before he could speak again. "Sorry. I'm sorry, really! It's just…" It wasn't his fault! It was just… they were Twinkies! Seriously, they were a miracle considering the time period –

Alexander froze again, mind backtracking and going over what he'd been momentarily distracted from. "Wait! Seriously, what year is it?"

"The eleventh since your embodiment in this epoch as a two-year-old," Athanasius said, straight-faced. "Happy birthday."

"That's not what I meant!"

The man blinked. "The first of the two years preceding the only slightly vague point in history we were aiming for."

The boy groaned and flopped back on his pillow, almost spilling the hot soup over his coverings. "Holy cow!" He threw his forearm over his eyes with what he later would admit to have been rather more dramatic flair than strictly warranted. "I've been reincarnated backwards in time!"

"Yes." Came the even-toned confirmation. "That was the whole point, was it not? To place you as near as possible to the time and place of your previous, premature death. So that I might catch the villain in the act, so to speak, and return what was taken away. Give you back the life you should have led, etcetera."

"I know! I know, but…" The second arm joined the first in shielding his sight from the world. He had the butt of both palms pressing down on his eyes now. "I didn't think I'd wind up all the way back in ancient Greece!" And who even used etcetera in a conversation?

"Well, it's not like it's the first time I used that word," his father commented from where he sat, knowing exactly what was going on in his mind, as usual. Then his voice turned somewhat ponderous. "I do hope this memory lapse of yours is not more widespread. I do not fancy having to undertake the whole 'stable time loops are the only type of time travel possible with very few exceptions' conversation again."

In all honesty he hadn't even thought that far ahead, but Alexander _did_ have a memory of holding and thoroughly enjoying that kind of conversation just over three years or so back.

When he was… ten.

The boy Alexander let his arms flop down uselessly and stared into space. The bowl of hot and tasty chicken soup was right in front of him but he didn't really see it. His mind combed over his life up to that point and everything he'd discovered or learned under his father's watchful eye. "…I know Homer by heart." He blinked. "Wait… I know ancient Greek! How the… that does not compute. Next thing I know I'll be sporting crazy ninja skills-" His thoughts took a sharp swerve. "Oh my god, I _do _have crazy ninja skills…" He gaped and frowned, regular habit warring with the experiences of a lifetime of near total mediocrity. "I can balance on each single one of my fingers and draw stuff at the same time with my other hand!? What the fu-"

"-Now I'm _sure_ you're not actually going to do me the dishonor of dirtying your tongue with slurs like the one that just passed through your mind. 'Dammit' is about as much as I'll allow, unless you want me to practice my mash-cooking skills again."

Silence.

Alexander tried but couldn't bring himself to meet whatever stare his father might have on at that moment. He wondered if that was what it felt like to be stalked by a beast in the middle of the forest. At night. While only having a stick to ward it off. A very small stick. Small and thin. Willow-thin. Tree-willow, not Willow-Willow.

The pressure disappeared with a sigh from deep within his father's chest. "Well. I'll definitely have my work cut out for me from now on."

"-. .-"

The world spun as was its wont.

Not that the humans of those times were aware of that, or the real shape of the planet, or that it even _was_ a planet, but Alexander's thoughts were starting to sound a lot like an egress. Definitely more random than the plans for that particular day.

Turned out "Athanasius" was more of a title than a name. Which kind of made sense. It meant "immortal" and encompassed about as little of what the 'man' was as anything could while still being at least somewhat representative. True. _Real_. Alexander would have expected his own name to sound foreign, especially since the Greek pronunciation was Alexandros. But after thirteen years (well, technically eleven) of living with it, it felt more natural than Xander Harris ever did.

Sorry Willow.

Dawn had barely broken, but that was fine. It would have been better if it was pitch black outside too, since Alexander really wanted to test his technique. But his father insisted that he have a good, long rest that night, and the teenager didn't really see the point in arguing. There was no logic in begrudging someone's directions or advice when you were well aware they really did know best and were acting in your best interest even when you yourself weren't. Sometimes it was hard to tell if the man was using psychometry to understand everything and everyone around him or if he was outright omniscient, if there was such a thing.

Psychometry by line of sight. That was what all his own flashes of insight and images were about. Technically speaking the brain of his kind was actually geared more towards prophetic visions, even if few ever achieved that ability. But his very, _very _protective father rendered everything and everyone below and above the physical plane blind to his existence and activities, which in turn meant that he could not be taken into account by any of the powers and phenomena determining foresight or any other type of scrying. Add to that his own free-spiritedness and he was in the unique position of being able to wreck any vision or prophecy. The drawback was that he himself lacked any capacity for foresight, save what he could remember from the 20th century history he muddled through in school.

Knowing all this, his father tweaked his physiology a bit to develop psychometry instead. No point in letting a perfectly usable psychic potential go to waste after all. Especially if it didn't impede one's ability to think with ungodly speed, or reminisce about anything and everything in a flash.

Like he just had.

Alexander closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, listening to his surroundings. There was barely a breeze. Not unusual, given their home's placement in the middle of the woods. He raised his longbow, slowly drawing on the string until his arrow was well and ready. One of ten arrows he had lined up to shoot at high-speed, five between the fingers of his right hand and five in the other. It had been many months since pulling them out of any nearby quiver and holding them in that manner could be considered a challenge.

At times he remembered the depiction of archery from 20th century films and games. He almost always had to force back an onset of laughter. The first few times he failed to contain it entirely. Everything about the way those "archers" fired the bow to how they drew arrows and held their quivers was wrong with so very few exceptions. On the other hand, many of the fantastical "feats" exhibited by ancient or medieval action heroes from films, games and comics actually _were_ possible. The handwork was just totally unlike anything Hollywood actually showed. And it was never depicted just how important the breathing cycle was.

It involved so much more than just holding your breath when releasing the string.

The first arrow had barely shot out when his posture changed, second arrow sliding in its place. It flew less than a second after the first, straight at a completely different target. The action was repeated seven more times in even fewer seconds, until only one arrow was left. Not even pausing from the long string of bowshots, Alexander twisted on his heels and brought his weapon in a wide, sweeping arc. The arrow had been drawn on the inside of the bow and was allowed to take flight three parts through his final movement, and as he released it into the semi-darkness he flicked the bow shaft _just_ so.

The arrow sung through the air, flew a hairs breath's shy of the tree holding his initial target, _curved_ around it through the shaded morning until it hit a bullseye mounted sideways relative to the others, several meters to the left of where he'd actually aimed. Alexander listened to the "thunk" coming from the target he couldn't see and smiled in satisfaction, finally releasing the breath he'd been holding in. He shoots, he scores! Ten perfect bullseyes out of ten, each hitting their goal half a second after the previous one. Had he a gun he would have been able to shoot the wings off flies, but arrows weren't fast enough for that. Crossbow bolts either.

His blatantly enhanced physical and mental abilities were something that stood out the most after Alexander recovered his past life's memories. His old man's explanation was surprising. According to him, the first death always changed his kind's physiology to something along the lines of what his was like. Their Quickening "remembered" it from their first embodiments, or at least the lives during which they gained or were given understanding and mastery over the Vril. Most never managed to maximize their potential, however, for various reasons.

Some of the advantages were a direct result of how much of the brain they could use for active thought and action, as opposed to unconditioned reflex and subconscious ruminations. Super-hearing, smell and sight, improbable reflexes, the ability to process the full range of frames perceived by the eyes at will, the ability to think hundreds of times faster than normal, self-healing, these were all biological benefits. His arguably superhuman physical strength and agility were the result of training, but he knew well it hadn't taken nearly as long as it should have to reach that level. There was also the tiny, oh so convenient detail that lack of sustained exercise would not cause his physique to backslide.

Foresight, or in his case psychometry, was where things started to depend on the spirit. Sure, a special section of the brain did form, but it only processed signals. Signals that could only be received through the insubstantial parts of his self, from subconsciously (or perhaps superconsciously) tapping into the higher planes. Telepathy and Telekinesis were next, but he hadn't developed either yet. Most likely he'd need his Quickening returned before his spirit and awareness expanded to the levels and range required for those. Even if the full range of (possible) power wouldn't be unlocked until his first death.

After that? There were some really fantastical abilities on the table. Athanasius had vaguely mentioned something about the original humans believing they came about as a result of being able to use over 60% of their brains for active thought. But the truth was (he said) that it was owed to being able to access the power of the Vril, and that _that_ enabled the extra brainpower as a mere side benefit, on account of most of the normal things being offloaded to the insubstantial parts of the self.

Or something. It hadn't been explained too thoroughly. His father sometimes did that, refused to go into detail about certain things his son asked about. Due to it being more of a distraction than a help, or some such reason. He wouldn't actively stop him from looking for info through other sources, but he wouldn't contribute when he felt it would be unwise to load him up with information he deemed irrelevant at the time, or likely to cause distractions without being of at least some help.

The retroactively reincarnated teenager privately agreed he had an issue with going off on tangents, but he never admitted it aloud. Not that his discretion seemed to matter, given who his father was. Even if this avatar _did_ restrict himself to whatever Alexander himself was supposed to have the potential to do.

He did complain a few times, even exploded at his father once, but no sell.

In any case, the sky was the limit once conscious use of the Vril was achieved. Maybe not even that was the limit. No telling how long it would take to master its use, but with the benefit of lucid dreams it should all go well, however many decades down the line the option opened up. Controlling his dreams had taken the longest to learn of everything he'd already attempted – seven whole months – but even before then his father exerted his own influence, using them as a way to teach him geography, history, anatomy, medicine, herbology, zoology and art.

Intersped with sudden ambushes or impromptu hunting and/or combat scenarios of course. Against both men and beasts, with an increasing number of supernatural enemies as he drew closer and closer to his fifteenth birthday. Vampires were the opening act, after which he very rarely recognized whatever came at him. Even when the simulation was for an infiltration or hunting mission, he was given very limited information. To help him think on his feet and spot patterns and weaknesses in a safe environment, his old man said. After he won or lost, said old man would proceed to identify the creature and list out strengths and weaknesses, as well as point out what he did wrong and when. A random number of days after that he would again be faced with those enemies and expected to do better. Alexander could safely say he was a living record of all kinds of lore now. He was even taught about the "live and let live" demon crowd.

Extensively. Athanasius was really big on justice and informed decision making.

Realistic feeling and pain levels aside, the astral plane was the perfect holodeck, even it was only his father's active concealment that kept him safe from random and not so random wraiths and spirits. And entities roaming the emotional layer of the world. And overly curious spirits. And whatever unspeakable horrors floated in between dimensions, trying to draw the interest of even the weakest clairvoyants with the temptation of things man was not prepared to know. And Cupid.

And nosy, soul vampire asshole gods of course. Can't forget those.

There was a single point of contention that never got resolved in those two years between his memory recovery and the present: Athanasius never said what year it was. And knowing the time by the village's reckoning didn't really help much, since the years were numbered differently for every tribe or country during ancient times. The young man was fairly certain his father only withheld that detail for the sake of his own amusement and nothing else.

With one last glance at the slowly fading stars, Alexander let his eyes roam over the targets again – they were always in a different place each morning – and went about repeating the exercise. His bow was relatively new and one needed to be intimately aware of its every trait in order to make proper use of it.

Eventually his father called him inside to eat his first meal of the day. The sun still hadn't appeared in the sky, but that was expected. Alexander wanted to get a good head start on his trip so everything had been moved up by a few hours that day. The weather was fairly warm, which made sense seeing as how it was already March. Poetic as it would have been to leave on a journey of self-discovery the very day he turned fifteen, doing that in the middle of winter would have been a needless hassle.

Had he lived through high school, Alexander thought wryly, he would have been leaving on his road trip. He'd have also been two years older and much, much more outclassed by the world than he was now. Hopelessly so.

Breakfast was a quiet but content affair. The older man didn't eat with him, busying himself instead with packing two thirds of the veritable feast he'd made for the road. Athansius may have chosen to hold off on teaching him any magic –_ the Vril has to come first, and there's no guarantee you'll be in perfect balance even then _– but had no problem using little cantrips himself when the situation called for it.

Oh yes. His food would stay fresh and tasty for however long it would take him to devour it all.

He finished eating first and just watched the man go about his self-appointed task. Even after all that time the teenager had a hard time understanding how Big White could go about his seen and unseen business while having absolutely no designs for Alexander himself. Oh, he did expect him to "be the most he can be" but, per his own words, no matter how much he worked towards the enablement of informed decisions, he'd always put free will first. It was palpable that he had a very low opinion of using others as pieces in a game. He also mentioned once that "I'm going to either stealth-steal from one of this world's gods or smack them around once I find where all the Quickenings ended up. That will set the fox amongst the chickens well enough on its own, I think."

Alexander was about to stand up and help his father carry everything outside. Alas, that was not to be.

"Ah!" Athanasius said with a raised finger, even though he hadn't been facing him. "Stay right there." Then he pulled away the kitchen window curtain and retrieved a pie Alexander hadn't even suspected of being there. The man set it in front of him and passed him a new knife and fork. "It's your last morning here, so you just eat and enjoy yourself."

"Kind of hard to do when you're not doing the same," the younger one mumbled, staring at the marvelously smelling, steam-wafting example of crunchy goodness.

"So long as you live well I'm content no matter what I'm doing." Then he spirited all the food parcels away and was out the door.

Alexander stared after him, not really surprised but neither unaffected by the off-hand comment and its implications. For a person who never lied to say something like that, even in a joking mood… He'd have needed at least half a minute to come to terms with it if it wasn't an old habit of his father's to be so earnest. As it was, Alexander was able to shrug it off in seconds and turn his attention to the blueberry pie.

Yum.

Some indeterminate time later, a well fed not-quite-adult finally exited the house. He'd been using his excellent hearing to keep track of the things going on outside so he wasn't surprised to find that his father had already loaded Bob up with everything he'd be taking along. From supplies to clothes and weapons, everything was neatly packed in the saddlebags. His studded leather armor with scale undershirt should have been waiting for him on the deck railing but it wasn't there. Huh…

Oh, there it was, piled on top of the wood chopping block next to the workshop. He thought of heading for it but his father motioned for him to go over to where he was instead, so he did.

"Well!" the boy said, trying not to feel too awkward. "The proverbial trip of self-discovery awaits. Or rediscovery in my case, assuming I find anything…" He wondered if knowing the year would help him build at least some expectation of what he was in for. Probably not. It would just as probably not make him any less reluctant to actually leave.

"Ironic, isn't it?" The white-haired man turned to look down at him. "You're less eager to leave the nest than I am to see you go."

The teenager rolled his eyes and tried not to be too obvious when he deliberately faced elsewhere. "As if you won't keep some part of your mind aimed at me." He reached out to stroke above the horse's muzzle.

Surprisingly, no answer came. No dry retort, no amused comeback, nothing. Cautiously, the teenager turned to meet his father's eyes again, only to find that his face had been overtaken by that expression he'd only put on once before. The one he'd had on when the young Alexander woke up in this life for the first time, all those years ago. An affectionate, tender thing, more than enough to take the breath away from whoever it happened to be aimed at.

Athanasius stepped forward and pulled Alexander into a strong, comforting hug that lasted minutes. Had there been an audience to cheer or jeer, the young man still wouldn't have been even in the least ashamed to admit he basked in the gesture. Melted into it really.

It broke at the precisely best moment, but his father didn't completely pull away. Still with his arms around his shoulders, he kissed his forehead and pressed their brows together afterwards, staying that way for a time. Only then did he take a step back, though not enough to prevent him from taking his son's face in his hands, that same expression still showing. "I love you, dear one." It would have stirred some philosophical ponderings if the boy's wits weren't all busy dancing on the wall over there.

Eyes finally letting the world resume its spin, Athanasius treated his son to one last gaze and turned away to do… something… Alexander wasn't really up to paying attention anymore.

His father was such a strange being. Out of the thousands of children he'd raised over the millennia back in his home dimension – and yes, he'd asked – only a handful had actually been _his_. But he'd told each of them the same thing at some point, and every time he meant every single word. The teenager thought back to his life as Alexander Lavelle Harris and everything he'd gone through. It hadn't been the worst possible life but it hadn't been close to even vaguely resembling the best. Between that and the reality of living with a half-drained soul, it was enough to make him wonder if he'd ever be capable of feeling and showing love so freely.

Lifting his eyes from ground he didn't really see, he watched as Athanasius finished adjusting the bag straps and the saddle. You always had to walk the horse a short distance and adjust the midriff belt in order to make sure it was going to stay in place. The older man then spent a few minutes combing the mane. It was brown, like the rest of the horse including the tail. There was not another color on him at all, save for the off-white hooves, and the legs were thick and strong.

Athanasius finished the last minute grooming and tucked the brush into one of the bags before tying it shut. After that, he turned around and glanced at his son, then at the armor waiting on the chopping block, then his son again, waiting.

Well… in for a life, in for an eternity he guessed.

With movements that felt easier than he expected them to be, Alexander stepped forward and embraced the other man. It was the first hug he'd initiated since regaining his memories, and despite everything he could do and everything he'd learned since then, that realization made him feel like the worst son ever. "I love you, dad."

The world seemed to warm up all at once and the hug was returned. "I'm happy I did well enough for you to say it. Even if you didn't get to have a mother this time."

Alexander huffed. "Not like the last one worked out all that well."

"I suppose not."

Eventually they were both ready to break off. The father helped his son get into the armor, even if he didn't really need the assistance. That done, Alexander was about to climb in the saddle when his father's hand stopped him. Mildly curious, the son turned back to face him squarely.

His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates when Athanasius reached up and removed the medallion he always wore around his neck, the Dara Celtic Knot sculpted in oak wood but white and fine like marble. It was suspended on a gleaming, immaculate silver chain. Chain that the man lowered over his son's head. Alexander blinked in stunned amazement at the new addition to his ensemble, gleaming there, three inches below his chin, then up at the face of the man who'd never gone into details when asked what the significance of the pendant was. Only ever saying that it had a special meaning to him, but never denying when his son speculated that it was actually…

"This is my holy symbol." Fingertips lingered over the surface before withdrawing. His father fixed him with a solemn look. "You know what that means."

Alexander was floored but somehow he managed to nod anyway. Asking him to speak would have been too much though. What exactly could he have said in face of the reality that he'd just been given the means to call for literal miracles? To contact his father at any time and…

Actually, maybe there was something he could say. "I'm a priest…" He gawked at his father. He couldn't help it. "I'm a priest."

"If that's the way you want to look at it, certainly." The nascent grin faded. "Give the world the best you have, son."

It took a deep breath and a second, slightly less heavy breath to get his thoughts in order, but he did it. "And if I get kicked in the teeth, I'll give the world the best I have anyway."

Ten minutes later, Bob whinnied and carried Alexander, son of Athanasius, away from the forest home a steady trot.

"-. .-"

In retrospect, he should have expected something bizarre to happen. Then again, their plan was bound to invite a fair dose of strangeness on its own, so he could be excused for not quite predicting how spectacularly it would fall apart.

It was all his horse's fault. No, not that horse. His other horse. And no, he wasn't going to trade his not yet gained kingdom for a horse, thank you very much!

The goal was for him to travel the world and read the history of whatever people, places or objects he could lay eyes on, until he found one which his incarnation prior to that of Xander Harris had interacted with at some point in the past. Once he did, he should be able to not just witness but experience the interaction between his previous incarnation and said person / object / place. From the perspective of said incarnation, because technically it was his own perspective. It would finally reveal who he'd been and let him trace exactly what and how had happened to him. Then his father could come into the picture and reach through space-time for the moment when his death happened and the soul leech bastard god sunk his metaphorical fangs in him.

Well, he hoped they were just metaphorical.

Obviously, this plan was still pretty easy to describe with the "needle in a hay stack" metaphor, but they had come up with a pretty reliable way to get started.

Alexander was going to Pella.

After all, Pella was the capital of Macedon, and if he'd been even slightly important or well-traveled, there would be at least one instance of past-him looking at the fountain at the center of the agora there.

Alas, it would become obvious that they had pinned the time of past-him's death a lot better than they'd expected. Or at least better than what Alexander had expected, since it was never a good idea to speculate on what Athanasius expected or knew.

Alexander was astride Bob, who was trotting down a dirt path, which was located westward of Ainos, which was a village a day's journey from Darovo by horse. It was early afternoon, an hour or so after they had stopped at a trough where Bob drunk to his heart's content and Alexander had his lunch and a Twinkie for the road. A perfectly normal situation: man on horse, horse on dirt path in the middle of nowhere. Well, middle of forested nowhere at least. The trees weren't too tall or thick together, but they were there.

Alexander's hearing, better than even a horse's or dog's by that stage, to say the east, picked up on noises coming from ahead. Repetitive noises. Horse hoof noises.

Calling a halt, the young rider guided his steed to the edge of the road and strained his hearing to the limit, cataloguing all the noises, loud or low. Never mind that no one but him could hear them, so they couldn't really be called noises at all.

Shoed hooves beating on the dirt path, metal clanks indicating a saddle. The horse was panting so it had been running for a fair while. The slightly erratic way it switched from gallop to a tired trot and back made him amend that deduction: it had been running for a long time. Longer than could possibly be healthy. What was most worrisome, however, was the way the saddle thumped against the horse's back, and the swish the spurs made as they swung empty through the air.

It was a rider's horse running desperate or scared, but it had no rider.

Quickly urging Bob to turn around, Alexander prepared to launch into a sudden gallop once the other horse came into view. He was on a quest but he supposed he could spare some of his time and psychometry to read the recent history of the animal and what may have happened to its master to separate the two of them and get the horse to run as if the devil were snapping at its heels.

He needn't have bothered. Not because the beast was too tired to put up a chase, but because the moment it came into view and sighted him, it gave a distressed-sounding neigh and half-ran, half-dragged itself straight for him. Its sweat was so thick that it covered its flanks and limbs like white foam.

The teenager tentatively reached out for the horse's muzzle when it was finally close enough. He was almost thrown off his saddle when the tired animal pushed its head straight into his chest and whinnied weakly in what could only be the most absurd level of relief ever exhibited by an animal.

Then the poor thing promptly collapsed on its side in the middle of the road with a half-hearted groan.

Feeling strangely like he'd stepped into the twilight zone and vaguely suspicious of this being a waking dream his father might have snuck over him at some point, Alexander nonetheless jumped off Bob as quickly as he could manage and urged him away while he knelt to inspect the new arrival. He'd deduced right on all counts from his listening: it was fully equipped for travel and looked like the steed of a noble. The quality of the harness and saddle, however dusty, was high.

The horse itself was a magnificent example too, with an all-black coat and a head as large as that of an ox, a body to match, and a large, white star on its brow. There was no way he was going to just abandon it here to die of exhaustion. Reaching at his side he pulled out his waterskin and emptied it in the mouth of the animal as best he could. Most of it spilled on the ground, but the horse lifted its head as much as it could when lying on its side and sipped at the jet as much as it could manage.

The poor creature looked done in and –wait. It had managed to lift its head and pull its forelegs at least half-way underneath it. Was that? Yes, he wasn't imagining it. That wasn't water darkening the dirt, it was blood.

That settled it, it wouldn't take more than a minute so he was going to look at the animals' recent past right now. No company of soldiers or other travelers passed that way during the past four days, but if someone was being chased from the direction of the Capital and only recently been pulled or thrown off their horse he might be able to track them down and rescue them, or apprehend them depending on the situation.

He only needed to see his target to do his thing, but to reassure the horse he laid a hand on its crest before he dove in.

It was easy to see, listen and feel the horse's life in reverse, but he couldn't stop the stirrings of disbelief when he passed the half-day mark and his second sight still hadn't reached far enough to see the cause of its flight. How long hand the thing been galloping for? And why had it stopped for him as if he recognized him? Maybe the holy symbol hanging from his neck marked him as a friend to all living things?

He got through four days of galloping, trotting, hoof dragging and the occasional drink of water before he finally saw far back enough to understand and get the answers to all his questions.

And then some.

His perspective suddenly split. Part of his mind was still watching the horse, but the other was experiencing, not just witnessing, _experiencing_ the event from a body that at once was and wasn't his own. Himself and two friends taking a night off from tutoring in the village near the Temple of the Nymphs. Staying out until well past midnight but not imbibing too much – what was the point in drinking if you weren't aware enough to enjoy and remember it later? Being accosted as they left wasn't in the plan, and neither was losing a fight to men who were revealed to be monsters with ridged foreheads. Jeering things led by a green thing with bone jutting from every angle on its face and every limb joint. They'd incapacitated two of the vampires – where in Hades' name was his armed escort? - and killed four on their rush to their horses, but they'd taken a beating on the way. They still weren't likely to escape – some of the attackers had mounts of their own and the others were inhumanly fast, and they had numbers – but Alexander heard and noticed that he was the target, so he taunted and led them away from Ptolemy and Hephaestion. Dawn wasn't too far away, if he could outride them…

But they cut him off even though he'd taken the unexpected route towards Pella instead of the Temple. After that it was all a haze of blood-pumping adrenaline, blood-chilling cackles, blood-spilling arrows and a hard impact with the ground. Bucephalas kicked two of the monsters with his hind legs and bit a third, but it too was felled by a claw gouging his flank, it made him crash to the ground. Then a rock was being swung at its forehead –

Alexander stumbled away and fell on his back from the sensory crash of experiencing, in mere seconds, everything Alexander went through after his horse was down for the count. His ribs smarted, his lungs were burning with ghost sensations, his heart was racing like mad and his breath was shallow. With an effort of will he forced his lungs to exhale, then slowly drew in a breath and released it, then did both again. And again. And _again._ Tentatively he reached up and traced his fingers around his throat to make sure it was still intact.

He'd died in lucid dreams, twice in fairly horrific ways, but even that hadn't felt as real or bad as this. Dying was _not_ supposed to be the first thing of his prior life that he went through!

The thought brought his entire brain to a screeching halt.

"Holy cow…" he breathed, staring at the blue sky. A commotion from nearby forced the survivalist part of him to jump to his feet. It made his vision blur and his head swim, but he refused to fall down again. When he opened his eyes again there was a once again standing black stallion crowding his personal space, and a brown one making confused noises of disapproval from somewhere close by. Very close by.

Taking a step to the side and removing himself from between the possessive animals, Alexander stared at Bob. Who stared at Bucephalas. Who stared at Alexander. Who switched from staring at Bob to staring back at Bucephalas. Who stared at him.

And then the young man raised his eyes to the sky. "What the hell!?" He demanded of the universe. "Not even the third day and you dump this on me!?"

Later he would remember to guide Bucephalas to the watering trough they'd passed earlier that day. He'd think enough to clean him, groom him and fix his saddle and reins. He'd even come up with some on-the-spot solutions to keeping the two territorial stallions from fighting over who got to carry him next.

That moment, though, he could only think of how he'd already achieved the main milestone on his quest. Which meant he'd have to call his father any minute now. And tell him what he'd discovered. Or let him see for himself, which he wasn't sure was all that better, because the man-shaped god had a very good sense of humor and an ever bigger appreciation for irony. Which meant that when he found out who his son's previous incarnation was, what his name was, what history said he was… the man would laugh. And laugh.

And _laugh_.

No wait… That was himself laughing. At himself. Because he'd just rediscovered himself and there were two horses staring at him like he'd just gone insane and-

There was a nice patch of grass at the side of the road over there. It was the same as every other patch of grass. It wasn't even a separate patch of grass, but in that moment it called to him. So Alexander, son of Athanasius, formerly Alexander son of Anthony, formerly Alexander son of Philip (the second!) had an epiphany.

He needed to sit down. Right now.


	4. Chapter 3: Deprophecized

**A/N: **Ah, this is finally out. Took me a while. If I manage to update even half-regularly, this thing will turn into a really huge piece of work. The readers of my other stories will hate me, I'm sure.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Deprophecized**

"-. .-"

Hysteria.

It was always _so_ much fun.

Alexander, son of Athanasius, was experiencing it for the first time, but Xander Harris had acquainted himself with it quite well, so many years before - _centuries in the future_. Not quite succumbing but more than often wrestling with it as the world went insane and murderous around him and his friends.

It wasn't dying that got to him, true, even if he dimly thought that that experiencing death should have pushed him into a panic attack or tears instead of laughing hard enough to slip over the edge like this, but then again nothing about his life followed conventional logic. He'd died once before after all, by his reckoning, and he'd even been aware for most of it. This new experience, being chased down, hunted, captured and beaten before finally being beheaded amidst cackling and gloating, it wasn't as bad. Even if it did happen at the hands of monsters.

Literal, real monsters. Mostly vampires but also some things besides.

No, the reason he was having a meltdown was… everything else!

It was a wonder that the two horses kept staring at him throughout the entire episode instead of running off.

After his meltdown, he allowed himself a minute to get himself fully under control before pulling himself to his feet. He distractedly pet the two animals on the muzzle while he steadied his breathing. Then it was time to face his destiny. With an internal cringe, he reached up to grasp the pendant around his neck, the Dara Celtic Knot large enough to take up half his palm. It was easy to focus his awareness onto and then into it.

Something in the world changed and Alexander immediately knew he had his father's attention.

Unfortunately, it didn't help him much when he just locked up, having no idea how to even begin describing the surrealism of the situation he found himself in. The mental stumble only took half a moment, but even his ungodly speed of thought wasn't a match for his father's deductive capability. There was a brief sense of assessment, then the connection visibly let through a clear feeling of… concern.

The active link disappeared – Alexander peripherally noticed that the medallion had been giving off a pure, immaculate shine that finally faded as well – leaving him standing back on the side of the road with his two horses. The only change was that now he knew what he was supposed to do, even if it didn't make much sense to "just follow the road." Especially with Bucephalas so spent and in need of a long drink of water that was a fair distance in the opposite direction. Nevertheless, he decided to just go with the unspoken but very clearly stated bid.

Releasing his awareness back outwards, Alexander looked between the two jealous animals several times, finally deciding to deal with their possessiveness by not satisfying either. Reaching out, he grabbed them by the reins and set off on a steady march down the dirt path. Both horses gave sounds faintly reminiscent of indignation but followed obediently.

For the next ten minutes, Alexander just walked, mostly with his eyes closed, wondering how much his father had already seen in him. Athanasius made it a point not to "read" him and his history too much, in order to let his son's life be his own as much as possible. Usually, Alexander appreciated it. Now, though…

When he finally opened his eyes to check his footing, he slowed his pace drastically and treated his surroundings to a cautious once-over. One with a fair degree of disbelief. The trees and path were totally different! Was he hallucinating? Because the only alternative was that he'd spontaneously teleported from one forest to a totally different forest at some point during his closed-eyed walk. Along with his horses. Both of them.

One minute later it became obvious that yes, he indeed had been transported to a totally different forest. His home forest to be exact. The path they were on opened into the large clearing he knew so well, with his home all the way over there, in the middle. The only thing that made this homecoming different from all others – other than, well, the horses and him being otherwise alone – was that the dirt path he was on led to the back of the property, not the front.

And there his father was, flat on his back, looking for all the world like he was sleeping on the bench to the right of the footway. Alexander stared at the odd sight. Other than the white, clean tunic and pants, the large man looked so… rustic. One hand was almost brushing the grass as it hung off the bench, and he wore sandals, even had a straw hat over his face and everything!

Athanasius reached up with the hand that had till then been resting on his chest and lifted his petasos off his face just a tad. "Not even three days and you're already back." Alexander scowled at the teasing tone. The man pulled himself to a sitting position and finally stood. His straw had slid to hang at his back by the laces as he stretched. "I should be surprised. But somehow I'm not."

"Funny." The teenager rolled his eyes. "… What were you doing?" There was no way he'd been _only _taking a nap. On the bench no less!

"Talking to the sun."

There was silence, save for the chirping of birds.

By that point Athanasius was less than a step from Bucephalas so he reached out. When his hand settled on the jaw of the animal, the black horse suddenly stood straighter. Alexander watched with some awe as the fatigue left the proud beast, the sweat dried and all traces of the salty foam disappeared. In moments it was like the animal had never even suffered through his mad, desperate, too long sprint. Instead, looking at him it was easy to assume he'd just awakened after a full meal of oats and a nice, long night's sleep.

"Versions of all the stars in the sky exist in many different dimensions," Athanasius was saying. "The minds, the _spirits_ behind them though…" He looked around the horse's head to meet his son's eyes. "_They_ are multiversal singularities." He grinned somewhat mischievously then. "They tell _great_ stories."

Alexander completely forgot what was on his own mind as even his absurdity-conditioned mind struggled to absorb that. For the nth time, he marveled at how easily and casually the not-man made statements like that one.

Mercifully, things got back on track when the large man approached and laid his hands on his son's shoulders. "What happened, son? You feel completely overwhelmed."

Alexander opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd come up with a dozen ways to tackle the issue of his prior life – life which he apparently had to pick up and live the rest of the way through – but none of them felt like they'd be...

"Ugh!" the young man groaned and dropped his head. "Just… take a look and see for yourself." And to Hades with discretion!

For a few seconds it wasn't clear whether or not the father had accepted the invitation. Psychometry gave off no feeling on the one being read.

Then Athanasius laughed. It started as a short burst, a startled – _startled –_ sound of such pure, honest mirth that Alexander was taken aback. He could only look up and watch as his unflappable, never-more-than-merely-amused father hunched forward and used him as support, almost hanging off him as he guffawed. A deep, rich voice that laughed deeply and freely, more than ever before in the son's memory. Alexander could feel the vibrations as they traveled through his father's hands into his shoulders until they resonated in his own chest. After a full minute, Athanasius almost brought himself to a stop, but whatever he saw in his son's face only set him off again.

Then he pulled his son close and literally lifted him off his feet, spinning him in a full circle before settling him back down, arms around him and cheek planted on the top of his head. The cascade that was his laughter at last settled into a calm stream. "Only you, dear one," he rumbled, warm and loving. "Only you."

"-. .-"

The wood chopping block. A place where many wood billets had experienced their final demise. Along with a fair number of chickens. And turkeys. And the occasional pheasant, can't forget those. Truly it was an artefact of death, soaked in the blood of the living. Alexander couldn't help but wonder if there was some morbid symbolism to it all, considering that he was currently sitting on the thing. Knowing his father, the man could have anticipated this troubling train of thought and engineered that situation deliberately so that Alexander would "pay" in brief emotional discomfort for telling him to read him instead of just explaining the situation when he arrived.

Seeing as how there was a pew-sized bench just outside the house over there, his assumption was all the more likely. That'll teach him to take the easy way out in front of his father in the future.

His father who happened to be standing right in front of him. "Are you ready for this?"

No, he wasn't. "Are you?"

Athanasius chuckled. "Son, I'll hardly be doing anything. Just reaching across a couple hundred or so miles and back through time a few days to see and intervene in the passing of your soul. Nothing more for now."

Try as he might, the teenager couldn't keep his incredulity fully hidden. If _that_ was "hardly anything" he wondered what would be capable of actually challenging him to any extent. "Right," he said flatly. "Hardly anything. Okay… Okay, whatever you say, dad."

"Quite right, son." Athanasius turned to walk off and stopped once he was several good steps away. "Get ready." He raised his right hand to shoulder-level and tossed Alexander a glance over his shoulder. "I'm going to translate as much as I can into visuals and sounds you can make sense of."

"Okay." The teenager grasped both his knees and tensed in anticipation of what was going to come. He wasn't actually going to be involved in the retrieval in any way so there was nothing stopping him from witnessing the reclamation. He hoped. In truth he didn't even need to be there for it now that Athanasius knew what to look for and where. His father was just doing him a favor by having him there instead of just… blinking into some higher plane to do his thing, and Alexander was sincerely grateful. "Go for it."

Turning fully away from him, Athanasius extended the fingers of his upheld hand and stabbed forward. The move was quick and steady, but otherwise nothing special. No aura of power, no special chant, no shout, no declaration. It was a simple knife hand.

It _tore_ the world.

That was the only way Alexander could describe it. Just as the arm was almost fully extended, space itself was rent apart as the fingers drove through it with nary a sound. The crack in reality was there for a second before it burst wider, becoming a nearly round gap with edges like cracked glass instead of the water funnel-like effects one might have expected. Then his father twisted his wrist, fully submerged in the hole by then, and the gap expanded outward until the anomaly looked like a man-sized sheet of glass that flickered into smoke and water every few moments. All in a single burst that sent a shockwave of air outward with a lone, suffocated throb.

The edges were beyond jagged, but Athanasius bent his head the tiniest bit and they smoothed out. Another considering look – the teenager could guess at it even if he couldn't see it – and the viewing pool suddenly had a round-cornered, rectangular frame. Alexander didn't need to be closer to deduce that the material, if it could even qualify as such a thing, was similar to the wood his pendant was made from. White with marble-like sheen.

Athanasius was really fond of the color. Then again, it was fitting, since it symbolized perfection, along with most other things nice and pleasant. Up to and including protection and encouragement, which pretty much described his whole "life" raising Alexander to young adulthood. And much of what he was doing now for that matter. Stepping to the left so he had a good view.

Good old, considerate dad_._

The myriad of colors that the viewing pool was rushing through came together into an image soon after. It settled on the semi-sideways, elevated view of a young man no older than Alexander himself – actually his splitting image, it had to be said – surrounded by game-faced, malicious vampires in the middle of the night. The half-moon was high in the sky but the teenager didn't pay it much thought. Just like he barely noticed getting up and walking around to take everything in. He almost forgot to stop himself from moving closer than was safe.

Feelings threatened to start burning in his chest, emotions he hadn't gotten around to feeling after reliving his own murder. The vampires weren't that much of a blip on his mind anymore, but there was a Kungai demon among them, closer to the forefront. A reddish-brown colored, deadly species of Asian demon whose rhino-like forehead horn could drain life force from victims. Considering the circumstances of his death and who had arranged for it, seeing it there wasn't as big a surprise as it should have been.

More important was the green-skinned creature closest to the viewing window. It had a fang-filled rictus and many sharp bone protrusions sticking out of its jawbone on both sides, from the chin all the way to the ears. They made a fine pair with the ones on its forehead, arrayed like a crown of horns.

A Van-Tal. The final form that vampires morphed into if they lived long enough. He had his sword primed to behead him, and there was nothing the teenager could do but watch. Nothing he could have done even in the past, since they'd worked him over good before finally dragging him onto that hill, mere days prior in the middle of the night. After the successful ambush in Mieza they'd caught up with him on the road, shot him off his horse, captured and beaten him repeatedly. The Kungai had speared him on his life-draining horn twice before the young man's resistance stopped being effective. Even then Alexander retained enough presence of mind to taunt them and struggle, until they finally strung him up and used a sledgehammer to shatter his legs.

There was no ghost pain as his mind flashed through the recollection, he was self-possessed enough for that. But true equanimity still eluded him, so the teenager clenched his fists as he beheld the still image preceding his murder at the hands of that monster. An image that had only been there for half a moment, but even that was more than enough for him to run through the entire experience again.

The Van-Tal's name was Javed. Meaning "forever" which was just the kind of arrogance he'd come to expect. The overdeveloped vampire had been all too eager to reveal it and boast about the whys and hows of their actions. The assassination was all due to a prophecy apparently, one that a Persian seer gave and which they had been sent to prevent. A foretelling that the son of King Philip the Second of Macedon's Argead dynasty would bring about the fall of the Persian Empire. There was a vague memory in the psychometric recollection about some other details and jeers, but Alexander had been drifting in and out of consciousness so badly by that point that it was a miracle he retained as much as he did.

Low on blood with painful stab wounds and the agony of shattered leg bones – which he'd been forced to kneel on – had been too much even for him. Looking at the still image now, at him with his arms spread wide, wrists constantly pulled on by two vampires wielding chains, he felt gratified that at least he went down taunting. Defiant to the end, even as the bastard pulled his arm back and beheaded him with his oversized machete.

His body fell lifeless all over the grass and the image in the viewing space-time breach faded into something far less distinguishable.

Athanasius didn't say anything. Didn't even glance back... Maybe he needed all his focus for what was essentially the set-up for a metaphysical ambush, but Alexander doubted it. It was more as if he didn't expect his son to need any sort of kind words after… that. Which was okay, come to think of it. Even after reliving the whole thing earlier and now the brief third-person view of his final moments, he didn't feel anything too serious. His mind was instead picking things apart and drawing some rather startling conclusions about the empire of Alexander the Great and what the real reason behind his campaigns may have been. _Was going _to be, apparently.

Other than that, there was only some… irritation. That was it. Most of which was aimed at the irony that the whole problem had been started by a prophecy.

Joy.

Alexander was beyond glad that he would never figure in any foretelling again ever.

The viewing image flared in multicolored lights and lightning started to streak over it in every direction, all of it coming from one, shimmering sphere of white light surrounded by gossamer strands of misty light just as immaculate as the rest. The beauty of it struck him, even if it was just a visual representation of whatever his father was truly perceiving. Then some unwelcome presence darkened and warped the fractal background. The arching lightning was pulled out of the star with not even the slightest shred of care.

Alexander's throat tightened at witnessing the lurch given off by his soul. The star-like mass dimmed and nearly all the white strands broke off, leaving behind something that was barely visible against the mesmerizing background. Background that had previously been negligible in comparison, despite how sophisticated and scintillating it was. The soul wasn't even uniform in its bleakness. Just the shade of the leftover pieces of what used to be perfection, fading in and out irregularly. Any moment now the quickening itself would drain into whatever trap the soul-vampire bastard god had set up and then –

Athanasius suddenly shot his right arm out and grabbed the thunder. Something vague and outraged reacted with shock, corrupting the fractal lights that made up the background of the soul's passing into the next life. Alexander had only the barest of moments to feel apprehension before his father released the Vril, backhanded the presence and once again grasped his Quickening in one, fluid motion. Literally backhanded it. There might even have been a cry of indignant outrage in there somewhere, like the ones that happened a lot in insurance agents' offices. And banks.

The teenager stared at his too-awesome-for-words father in complete awe. His old man had just bitch slapped a god in the face. _Bitch_ slapped them.

Go dad!

Seconds later, the white-haired man was already closing down the space-time breach with a negligent wave of his left hand. The ball lightning floating millimeters above his right palm was what had the bulk of his attention, and Alexander's too for that matter.

After a moment's hesitation, the young man gazed deep into the mass of divine Vril and, in a move which went against any and all common sense past, present and future, let his psychometry wholly free.

Next thing he knew he was waking up to his father's long-suffering gaze.

Actually, that wasn't quite accurate. The next thing he knew was what infinity felt like before he was suddenly waking up from a fainting spell. And he couldn't remember what infinity felt like anymore. Just that he'd experienced it. Or something like it. Maybe. "Hi," he told the man kneeling over him as he lay on his back in the middle of the front yard.

Athanasius regarded him levelly, which sent a bolt of alarm through him. "And now I have to be the channel for the karma of your rash action," he deadpanned. "Then again, perhaps this predicament is just a testament to your deductive capability. Since you're already on the ground I can only assume you've already divined the other steps involved in this restoration process and don't need me to talk you through it or otherwise prepare you." He motioned with a tilt of his head to look down, so Alexander did.

The young man only had a brief second to take in the sight of the lightning ball hovering above his chest before it was pushed into him.

"-. .-"

"_The Quickening will only surge and fill you upon your first death. But for you it will be best to restore your past life memories immediately."_

As Bucephalas galloped across the land, Alexander couldn't help but feel somewhat privileged. Especially since because of the still unidentified soul vampire bastard god, none of his kin actually got the benefit of their past life recollections, even when they did managed to reincarnate. Still, with his psychometry he would have been able to piece his past incarnation back together anyway. This only saved him time, which was running out a lot faster than he liked. His horse slowed marginally as they finally cleared the forest, but Alexander couldn't have that. "Fly Buchephalas! Hya!"

The animal neighed and accelerated again. A glance with his third eye told the rider that the black stallion was quite pleased that they had left Bob behind at the house before leaving.

Selfish, possessive beast.

They had been returned to their previous path just as seamlessly as they had been translocated away from there in the first place. Now out of even those thin woods, Alexander could see the grass and occasional bush passing them by in full detail, but the rate of hoof beats and the wind in his hair, the flutter of the horse's mane, showed just how fast they were really going. They'd probably broken the speed record of 88 kilometers per hour several times over the past day of uninterrupted sprint.

"_I'll keep Bob here, young and hale, until you need him again."_

Xander Harris had been too much of a slacker to learn a lot of history, especially beyond the national one, save some sporadic tidbits during research sessions with Giles and the others. But even he knew that Alexander the Great outlived his famous horse by quite a few years. Bucephalas would die either of old age or injuries somewhere in Asia. It sent a pang through his heart. He was quite fond of the beast. And not just because the horse was descended from the Mares of Thrace. Otherwise known as the Mares of Diomedes, which Hercules "cured" of their craving for man flesh by feeding their own, evil master to them. Turned out they just hated their owner. Once they were done with him, they didn't have any aggression in need of unloading on everyone else and could live on hay and oats like the rest of their kind.

His father was full of stories like that one. So were the books he kept pulling out of nowhere. And so was Aristotle, come to think of it.

"_I'll go knock some sense into would-be gods as soon as you leave. Or bring their palaces and dimensions down around their heads. Don't wait for me."_

Technically Athanasius could time-warp and appear in the exact spot and at the exact moment of his departure no matter what he did or where he went. But according to him he'd stretched himself across space-time at some point in the future for some as yet undetermined reason, and he'd left himself enough hints to know not to do much time travel outside of that otherwise. It was a thing of his that Alexander still didn't totally get. Either way, depending on where the Quickenings were being stored and whether or not time passed differently there, it could take his father anything from hours to days to get back. Time Alexander couldn't afford to waste. Not with the bastards who killed him just days prior still at large in Macedon.

"_The supernatural caused this mess, so I'll give you a little help,"_ Athanasius had told him when passing him the reins before sending him off. _"Go. Make the most haste. Fly to the capital, and no matter how fast you sprint your mount will not grow thirsty nor hungry, nor fatigued."_

With the woods far behind, their gallop down the long, straight road kicked up a huge cloud of dust in their wake, but Alexander didn't pay it any mind. He was too focused on and increasingly worried by the readings he got off the path ahead of him. Enough to not even give Mieza a passing glance as Bucephalas thundered past the off-shot road leading to the village and the Temple of the Nymphs just beyond. His home and school for the past few years. Aristotle was probably going spare over his and his two friends' disappearance. The philosopher had only accepted the task of being his teacher after Philip agreed to rebuild his hometown and free the former inhabitants from slavery. But the teacher and student had grown on each other somewhat in spite of that.

Not nearly as close as Alexander had grown with Hephaestion and Ptolemy though. If only those two had built up as high a level of level-headedness as they had affection and loyalty for their abducted friend. Alas, they had not, as evident from their decision to charge off in pursuit as soon as they could. The whole story unraveled in his mind the more ground he covered. The two had been setting themselves up to be ambushed as well, but his royal guard had, fortunately, managed to catch up to them first. So the vampires that had caught him decided not to risk letting him escape just to score some targets of opportunity.

The search party tried and failed to catch up to the monsters, since they'd left through the hills and wood thickets instead of following the road. They did pick up the trail, though, eventually. And since the demon group was headed to Pella anyway, his friends and soldiers never got an inkling that the things had made a midnight detour to the top of a hill, or that he'd already been murdered. They were just relieved when they finally – or so they thought – found the spot where the demons had taken up the road again.

He growled and the animal under him redoubled his efforts and broke another speed record. His idiot friends and soldiers were being led into a trap. The vampires had some way of going about their lives during daylight. More importantly, the demons had become aware of their pursuers and the bastard Javed had already come up with a plan to turn it around on them. The guy sure had some self-confidence if he had the gall to set up everything in the bloody Macedonian capital! Unless there was some spy or more on the inside to help things along…

Alexander snarled at the confirmation that came to him when he finally passed the last crossroad. Psychometry read both the present and history of people, animals, objects and places, which included all the conversations made in the vicinity of whatever he was reading.

His soldiers were going to have _words_ with a few people. "Go Bucephalas! Hya!"

The reborn prince's future knowledge of Alexander the Great's life and accomplishments was minimal at best. His poor scholastic performance as Xander Harris really irritated him sometimes. He could have done with all the forewarning provided by history books, written by the victor or not. Then again, none of the accounts actually held any information on the demonic or otherwise supernatural elements, save for the mention of some seers like the Oracle of Delphi. And as had become all too obvious – from his recent experiences, his regained memories and the information he kept psychometrically reading in the path ahead – there were a lot of supernatural and demonic elements active in this day and age.

The young man looked up at the darkened sky. They'd been galloping for two days straight and the only thing they had to show for it was a very slight sheen of sweat on Alexander's brow, with none on the horse. Now the stars were already out and the sun was descending behind the horizon. Was already out of sight of the city folk, due to Pella's high walls. The city wasn't yet in sight, but he knew it was just a matter of time before it came into view, twilight or not.

Not that he had any trouble seeing in the dark.

_"My boy, you must find a kingdom big enough for your ambitions. Macedon is too small for you!"_ Philip had been emotional enough to shed tears as he said that. In had been right after a young Alexander tamed Bucephalas, when he'd found a way around the beast's fear of its own shadow. He'd been 10 years old at the time.

But maybe it hadn't been ambition after all that led him to conquer the known world. Or wouldn't be. Alexander of now was definitely not the sort of person that would go off conquering left and right just for glory and self-importance. It was part of the reason why he'd had such a strong reaction to learning the truth of his previous – now again current – identity. If he was right, if the Persian Empire really _had_ fallen far enough to be under the hidden control of the forces of darkness, then instead of a War of Conquest it would be more of a War of Liberation.

The Van-Tal and his henchmen had been sent to assassinate him because he would bring down the Persian Empire. Not because he'd go hunting them or otherwise make their lives hard, but because he would topple the _Persian Empire_. There weren't many reasons why dark, twisted things like them would want things to go on as they were. More importantly, they'd been _ordered_ there. Javed wasn't some overlord or anything more important that a maybe high-ranking henchman of someone else. It painted some truly bleak possibilities regarding what the current Persian Archaemenid Empire was like, under the surface.

Cyrus the Great was probably turning in his grave. It made Alexander grit his teeth. He _admired_ the man. Cyrus the Great had been a saint, to the point that even the Jews considered him a chosen of God. He'd been the first ruler in recorded history to give a declaration of human rights, for crying out loud! And now his empire was a cesspool of decadence and discord controlled by the spawn of the Old Ones, or so hints kept suggesting.

Alexander glared at the sight ahead when the capital finally came into view. He didn't even bother weighing the benefits of stopping at the guard post versus those of charging right on. Being raised and tutored in relative seclusion, none would be able to recognize him anyway. Not until his father introduced him to the people. Philip was, fortunately, elsewhere on a campaign so he was relatively safe. Unless there were assassins after him as well, but then there was always someone seeking the death of kings. At least he wasn't in the city right now.

If only something similar could be said about the rest of his family. His _mother_ was in Pella, and he'd scryed enough on the path leading here to know that Javed intended to kill her and all of Philip's other wives just to make sure none of them would be able to give birth to some other son of Philip that would topple the Persian Empire.

As if _that_ would happen while he still lived.

He urged his mount forward again, even as he checked his arsenal for what was coming. Kopis, xyphos, longbow, quiver at the back near his waist, everything was there. Whether or not he'd be able to do anything with the spear tied horizontally at the horse's side would depend on the gate guards.

There they were now. "Hya!" He shouted loudly enough to practically startle them. There was a shout to close the gates and the two gate sentries scrambled to cross their spears in his path. "Hya!" No slowing down now.

If he was right, if the Persian Empire really _had_ fallen far enough to be under the hidden control of the forces of darkness…

Then he'd bring it down! "Fly through!" Bucephalas charged right through the valiant attempt at barring his path. The guards had tried to close the gates in his face after the third time he ignored their shouted commands to stop and declare himself. They didn't manage it quickly enough. Bucephalas reared back and smashed his front hooves into the large wood and iron doors so hard that the men on the other side were tossed away, leaving his passage unimpeded. Alexander would have winced at the falls the two men took if he wasn't so focused on what was coming next. He'd have to remember their faces and names for later reparations. They were just doing their duty, unlike the traitors that had allowed demonic assassins into his city.

There was another ring of walls, however, separating the outer slums and sewers from the city proper, and the gate leading through _did_ get closed in time.

No matter.

Bucephalas skidded to a halt, and that was fine. Alexander was already crouching on top of his saddle, and when his faithful horse came to a stop, the Prince of the Argead dynasty rode the kinetic shock and jumped forward and up, high enough to soar over the head of a startled guardsman, land feet first on the wall and run up until he was close enough to grab a flagpole and boost himself the rest of the way. Wind blew past his face and gravity didn't exist.

The two soldiers on top of the observation post cried out in surprise when he shot into the air right in front of them. One hand on the wooden railing adjusted his path so that he landed right on top of the nearest one. Not stopping, he did a hand-flip and kicked the other one in the gut while he was still upside down. Bronze cuirass met his foot, but the shock was more than enough to send the poor man to the ground in a dazed, groaning heap.

Once he was finally back on both feet, Alexander stayed crouched for the one moment he needed to check the continued wholeness of his equipment. All there. And Bucephalas was still causing a riot down below.

Well.

Time to get to work.

"My apologies for the treatment," he told the still conscious guard. The one he'd brought down first. "I will remember your face and your name, Argyros, son of Aristos, and that of your fellow guards. I will make sure you receive proper restitution from my father." Then he divested him of his spear – a four meter xyston, not bad – and took off north-ward down the battlements, dodging a couple of bowshots and taking down two more guards as he went. He was actually aiming to reach the arena, which was towards the west in the center of the capital's agora, but he couldn't afford to take the streets and cause chaos. It was still quite crowded outside and those were _his_ people down there. He wouldn't endanger them.

In seconds he was at the corner of the wall, just shy of the watchtower where more soldiers were barring his path. He would have them commended later for their excellent response time in the face of his unconventional actions. But he did not have time for them now, and the tower had never been his goal anyway.

He veered leftward abruptly enough to give lesser men torn ligaments and jumped off the wall. The sensation of weightlessness was magnificent, but nothing he hadn't experienced before, and it was dulled by the presence of ancient city smell. That mix of sweat, raw fish and animal waste. The spear preceded him in its fall, sharp iron edge thrusting down into the stone ceiling of the tradesmen's guild. Not the best suited type of pole for a javelin jump, but his hand-eye coordination, strength and agility was more than up to the task.

Kept aloft by the four-meter piece of wood, he soared over the entire building and the road beyond, finally landing in a perfect roll on the roof of the inn on the far side. He did ever so love the style of those old buildings, with predominantly flat roofs and terraces rather than gabled designs. He allowed himself one glance back at the disbelieving soldiers staring at him in shock from all the way back on the wall.

Then he was off again, running and jumping from roof to roof, occasionally crashing the evenings of random people who were sipping some beverage or otherwise spending time outside. It was a warm night, good for such things, and the smell of the city was weaker higher up than at street level. His third eye was revealing their histories and secrets in a flash now, which was good. It was preferred to know the ones you ruled over. He wasn't actively paying attention to the gossip entering his mind though, since his focus was unwaveringly set on reaching the trap spot before it was sprung. So he ran, leaped, rolled and occasionally climbed up walls until there were no more pursuers in sight.

The marvels of parkour. Another word that didn't yet exist.

He was an almost invisible shadow now, as he cleared alleys one after another. The main roads were well enough kept, but the gaps between buildings which led to the back alleys were narrow by design, to give as little room as possible for the back alley smells waft out. Pella was one of those cities with a sophisticated water supply and drainage system, but there were still quite a few areas where the odor was outright pungent, and the less stench that made it to the main roads, the better.

Unfortunately, the closer he got to the city center, the father apart and taller the buildings became until he couldn't keep up his free running any longer. Quickly sneaking to the edge of the roof of the weavers' guild he was on, he grabbed a cloak that had been hung out to dry, slid down the side banner next to the door and, after donning the stolen garment, hood and all, quickly disappeared into the small mass of people. He almost wished there was a curfew in place. Come to think of it, there were a bit too many people still out, given the hour. The night braziers and window lights had come on a while ago, but some people were still packing up their market stalls and the temple traffic was considerable for the time of night.

Then he remembered. The Great Dionysia festival was bound to start in a few days. It was always held in Pella between March 10 and 17, with Pandia being celebrated on the last day. The people were preparing for the event, so they stayed out and bustled about from merchant to acquaintance more than usual, to get everything done. With his track record, he wouldn't be surprised to find out that Javed and his henchmen were thinking of crashing the celebrations, maybe make a public spectacle of his death. He hadn't picked up on the intention on the way there, but it wouldn't be too hard for the bastard to get the idea.

That was when it finally happened. He laid eyes on a vampire. It was just a fleeting glance that the normal-looking demon-infested corpse didn't notice, since it was already disappearing into a side street. Alexander didn't follow. He only needed to look at the building itself to know everything about it. Including that there was a vampire scaling the wall. Not showing anything suspicious, the incognito prince examined the other buildings close to the arena. That was, apparently, where the demons had holed up. Plenty of room in the fighters' quarters and the underground slave pens.

He grieved for the ones who'd lost their lives or been turned in there over the past day. It was fortunate that the place was sparsely populated this time of year. Surprising that the Temple of Artemis didn't keep the evil things away, though. It wasn't that far away. Just on the opposite side of the agora, though he supposed the market square _was_ fairly sizable. Or maybe the intruders had some supernatural help. They _did_ manage to get around during the day despite most of them being vampires.

His thoughts halted when he finally spotted his two friends following the same vampire he'd just seen. "Crap." They'd come to the conclusion their "prey" had seen them and decided to follow the alley further, not knowing that there were over a dozen fang-faced bastards converging on the rooftops around them. At least they allowed the head of his royal guard to come with them, but that didn't really improve the situation. Not even with the two soldiers sent to cut their quarry's path. It just increased the number of people about to die. Alexander silently cursed. They had no idea that they were dealing with things other than men and he couldn't really lay it all on them given the whole daywalker vampire issue. They just wanted a man to interrogate regarding his location. They assumed he was being held for ransom somewhere.

With that cheerful thought, he vanished into the closest gap between buildings and ran up the side of the wall, jumping between it and the opposite one until he flipped overhead, landing on the roof in a crouch. He was on the building bordering the string of stalls surrounding the arena itself now. It was the best vantage point he could get to that also gave him the benefit of being downwind of the congregating undead. Crouching, he let his eyes roam over the whole area and scryed as much information as was possible to be read in a single glance. A moment later, he paled and barely refrained from cussing outloud and exposing himself. The number of enemies was higher than he could deal with from there, and he was too far away to intercept the first wave. His two friends and guards were walking to their deaths, literally.

Fortunately, Athanasius had put him through sufficient dreamland simulations and nerve-wracking trials that he could keep a level head even while being boiled alive by a volcanic eruption. There was always a solution to any dilemma.

His eyes settled on the string of stalls.

In one quick move he pulled out his longbow, drew five arrows and sent them straight up as far as they could go, one after another. It took him three seconds, then he was airborne again, leaping high from his perch. He landed easily on the top of the closest stall, one leg balanced on the wooden beam. He praised the construction standards of Macedonian market stalls as he ran and hopped from one to the other. The few people still milling about, most coming to and from the temple, were far enough away that by the time they noticed anything moving, he was already at the other end of the line.

Gathering momentum, he threw himself forward and up, meeting the wall of the smith's shop feet first with sufficient force to run up two steps and grab the eaves of the roof – a gabled one this time. After that, it only took one heave to not just pull himself on top, but send his entire frame shooting vertically, flying almost. One moment he was hanging by a hand – the other still held his bow and two arrows between his fingers – and the next he was two feet above the lowest level, notching an arrow and letting it fly.

The first vampire didn't even have time to turn. The second did, owing to being far enough away on the nearby homestead, but died soon after to the second arrow released by the bow. Only then did leather boots touch shingles. Alexander dashed forward, balance flawless despite the incline of the rooftop, drawing five more arrows from his quiver as he went. When he finally stood on the comb, the other beasts saw him. Saw him and started to die to the arrows he'd shot in the beginning, and which were finally raining down from the sky.

Oh yes, all those legendary feats involving a bow and arrow were actually quite possible when attempted by the right person.

Five arrows, four kills. Each shaft fell tip first through the left gap in their collarbones, but the fifth sunk into the victim's head instead. As Alexander released his own arrow and nailed it in the heart, he wryly thought that it was times like this that he wished vampires had at least something in common with actual human physiology. Unfortunately, you couldn't stop psychokinetically animated flesh by breaking the spine or shooting holes through the brain. Not without making huge, messy holes. Staking worked because wood had a tiny shred of living, divine energy still in it, and it destroyed the demonic anchor of the Van-Tal infesting the body. Otherwise, they just kept standing and coming at you.

Like the five vampires below that had swarmed his friends and bodyguard. Miraculously, the two that had been meant to cut off the escape of his "abductor" had made it through without dying, but not unharmed. In the few seconds it took to release all five arrows and draw five more, Alexander saw clearly how one lunged forward, heedless of the sword being brandished at his face. Two more jumped the beleaguered group from the other side, one coming down right on top of them from the roof.

He never made it. The arrow caught him still airborne, showering the humans fighting below with grimy dust. The one who jumped them first escaped death by sheer dumb luck. The arrow hit him in the side instead of the heart, so he managed to bring the soldier to the ground where they started to wrestle. The third ambusher fell to a spear shot from the royal guard chief Andreas, albeit only because it went far enough through its chest that the wooden shaft touched its heart. Alexander felt sorry for the middle-aged man. He was in his mid-thirties and had to babysit teenaged noble brats on their rash cross-country hunt. He'd be getting a commission and raise for sure, but right then wasn't the time.

Warnings flashed in Alexander's mind as he read the area again. Without hesitating, he threw himself into another leap, releasing three arrows before he even got close enough to the opposite wall to kick off it. One missed Ptolemy's neck by a centimeter and nailed a game-faced creep to the wall by the arm, the others took out two vampires that had tried to jump the ones below – the last two from the rooftops. He didn't have any surfaces left to break his fall, so he flipped through the air. The remaining two meters didn't even jar his joints when he landed in a crouch. He could even have avoided having to roll, but he did it anyway, ending on his feet with his back to his friends and not one but two arrows poised to shoot in the direction that Ptolemy and Hephaestion had walked in from.

The wide-eyed, utterly shocked figure of Javed stared at him open-mouthed from under the eaves of the building Alexander had rained death from mere seconds earlier. And wouldn't you know it, Alexander's hood had come off during that last maneuver.

What a coincidence.

Behind him, his men managed to incapacitate the last vampire through sheer trauma before one of them used the broken shaft of a spear to dust it along with the one stuck to the wall. Alexander knew one soldier had some broken bones, and another was in a bad way after having part of his throat bitten off, but he didn't look back. "See to Alexis. Quickly now!" He needed his neck wrapped fast, but Alexander wasn't going to turn around. He refused to take his eyes off his killer. The look on his face was too good to miss even a moment of it.

"Impossible…" Javed breathed.

"Merely improbable actually," the young archer said evenly.

"I killed you." The Van-Tal was so shocked that he took a step back.

"You left me for dead."

"I cut off your head!"

"So it appeared." His bow and arrow didn't twitch even a millimeter during that exchange.

The standoff continued while his men gave the wounded whatever care they could. It was nearly half a minute before Hephaestion shook off the shock of recent events. "Alexander…" So the friendship _was_ mutual if he actually called him by name in public.

"Prince Alexander? Is that really you?" Ptolemy was always a bit more formal, which was rather strange, considering that he was actually his half-brother on their father's side. Philip was such a womanizer.

Alexander kept looking at Javed. Not just because his unblinking stare unnerved the monster but because the more he did the more information came to light. Truly, the vampire had lived for a _very_ long time, and it was his blood that allowed other vampires to move about in daylight. One mouthful of it, the concentrated essence of the Old One Maloker, supported each of them between two and four days. Javed actually dated back to the Age of Heroes, ended roughly 1,500 years before with the Twilight of the Gods. It had been dumb luck that the Warrior Princess didn't go hunting for him and his nest when she passed through India all that time ago. She'd been too busy dealing with the sorceress Alti at the time, and by the time she was done the still young vampire and his ilk had fled south.

Now he was a member of the Order of Taraka contracted by Bagoas, a eunuch (or so everyone believed) vizier supposedly working for the Persian Emperor but who was in truth some kind of body-jumping snake thing with a deep scratchy voice and glowing eyes. The real power behind the oft changing Persian throne. The Macedonian prince showed nothing on his face, but his heart sank at the confirmation of his worst fears. Gaining full awareness of all the crimes and despicable atrocities perpetrated by the monster in front of him didn't help his mood, but he could get through readings without being psychologically affected by them by now.

Then, because he knew better than to let a standoff continue too long, or to give the enemy a chance to escape or monologue, Alexander unceremoniously let both arrows fly, reaching for more even as the first two found the Van-Tal's heart.

"Aaargh!" Javed howled, more in rage than anger. "Fool! No arrow ca-" a third one went through his mouth and shut him up nicely. Alexander nailed him with two more but the monster survived them all, turned tail and ran.

No _way_ was he letting that demon get away. "See to my men!" He was already three leaps down the alley by the time he finished shouting his order. It wasn't important if he'd be obeyed or not. They wouldn't be able to keep up anyway. He got Javed with two more arrows but the third missed when the thing took a sudden turn right into the open market. Damn, he was _fast_.

But so was Alexander. He caught sight of him again seconds later and managed to empty his quiver into his back. Two arrows caught him in the knees from behind, finally making him crash on his face and slide to a halt in the middle of the agora. It was free of vendors now, but there was still a number of people traveling to and from the Temple of Artemis not too far off.

Growling in both pain and rage – he'd pulled the arrow in his mouth out already, alas – Javed jumped to his feet, grabbed a large bench and threw it straight at him. Alexander ducked under it, and next he was almost nailed in the face by a large clay urn. He smashed it to pieces with a backhand, not even paying attention to the rain of shards as he sprinted through it. He was out of arrows now but they were pretty useless on the creep anyway. If his father had named himself into the fabric of this dimension, he would have been able to bestow a blessing or something. As it was, Alexander had to rely on himself more than any other hero or priest.

No problem. He preferred it that way.

Soon he was almost within jumping distance – Alexander could jump _far_ – but Javed stopped and tried to set back the pre-immortal's pursuit by the expedient of upturning an entire market stall, wood beams and all, and practically throwing it through the air right at him. The wood groaned and nails screeched as the construction lost integrity. If it had been tried on a normal human or even a slayer, it might have worked. But Alexander's thought speed was beyond theirs and his reflexes were even better.

It was by a hair's breadth, but he managed to throw himself aside and roll out of the way. The ruined structure half-crushed a different market stand which did catch his cloak under it, but he tore the stuck part off and resumed pursuit. A whole bunch of people had seen what was happening, seen the green-faced, super-strong horny demon with bone spikes on his face and arrows sticking out of his body everywhere. Oh well, people were more widely aware of the supernatural in this day and age anyway. The consequences of letting Javed get away were far worse to contemplate versus this minor exposure. He was here to kill the royal family and do heavens knew what else.

The Prince of Macedon burst through the doors to the arena hypogeum and slowed but didn't stop his advance. "To sow discord and kill the unwary!" he shouted as he strode, looking around for his target. "That's The Order of Taraka's motto isn't it, little lizard?" It was a risk to follow him into the arena underworks, since it was for all intents and purposes his territory now. But Alexander could know everything about a person or place at a glance, and there was no way he'd allow a Tarakan to go. He grabbed a spear from the many lined up on the walls and drove it right through the wooden doors leading to the stairway. Javed yelped at being nicked in the gut and fled up the stairs. "Fitting that you should run! I sure as Hades am not unwary now!"

No response. Surprising, since he was supposed to be leading him into a trap. The demon hunter regretted the lack of windows. He'd have been able to scale the walls and spring the trap in his favor, but the hypogeum was closed to the outside.

By the time he cleared the staircase, Alexander had his kopis already out. He'd also stopped by an oil urn and soaked what was left of his cloak into it. Now there was just one door between him and a room full of undead and two demons. One flimsy iron door between him and seven fledglings, the Kungai demon waiting above the entrance, and Javed. He could practically see the history of the passage with his inner eye.

It was worth noting that Alexander was fully aware that the stone around the hinges had been corroded beyond belief. Macedon could really do with some quality control. Also, it was truly the undead's misfortune that Alexander possessed a tinderbox.

The door flew inward with a rattling smash, crushing two vampires in its path, and was followed by a forward-leaping man wielding a veil of fire. The Kungai demon fell from its ambush perch due to the surprise, and the two of four close-by vampires that escaped the flaming wave's embrace did so only by virtue of falling on their behinds from the shock of it. The fire burned bright and sketched graceful arcs in the air, terribly beautiful to behold. So beautiful that two vampires had already lost their heads in the distraction by the time the rest snapped out of it.

The ones closer to the walls fired their crossbows wildly, barely making out anything beyond the spinning veil of fire. Alexander avoided all but one, which sunk into his thigh, but that didn't slow him down much. He was too far into the rhythm, despite lacking the equivalent of a muleta that would normally be needed to wield a cape or cloth in the manner he was doing. With a broad stroke, he sent it outward and wrapped it around the closest vampire left, He gave a mighty thug, unwilling to wait for it to burn to death like the first two still were. He bent sideways, avoiding the charge of a fourth, and kicked a bench so that it flew across the room and flattened two of the archers against the wall before they reloaded. His blade flashed out and cut down the one trapped in his flaming, oil-soaked cloak.

He was too slow to avoid being tackled by the Kungai though. Not slow enough to get outright impaled on its forehead horn, however. It only cut a deep gash through his side. The wave of fatigue washed over him immediately, but it was manageable, and by the time the creature recovered from how it had overextended, Alexander's arm was already coming down.

The Kungai demon screeched in agony as the horn was severed from its head. It kept howling for a while after, but the Greek prince was too busy with the remaining attackers to worry about it. He did have to tone down his superhearing due to the noisy death throes, unfortunately, which was why he was sufficiently unprepared when Javed made his move. Right when Alexander killed the last undead, he was struck sideways with a huge two handed mace made of iron.

His arms hadn't been in the way, so none of his limbs were broken. Several ribs did crack, though, and the impact with the wall and then the ground didn't help matters.

Grunting and barely avoiding getting his head crushed by an overhead strike, he rolled away and forced himself to his knees, wondering how the bastard could even swing such a long weapon in that closed space. His sword had been knocked out of his grasp, and he'd let go of his flaming cloak some time earlier as well, when the flames finally reached his hand. One glance gave at least him the answer to his first question: Javed had broken the wood shaft half-way and was using the large weapon one-handed. Swinging it right at his face and gloating about something actually, but he couldn't quite make it out.

With a split-second decision, he jumped close and blocked the hit, grabbing the forearm under his armpit. Then, in the brief pause caused by the shock of that reaction, the counterstrike came. One mighty palm strike straight to the face, fast and precise, and hard enough that the monster was lifted off his feet and his chin spikes broke under it instead of piercing skin and flesh as would have been more expected. It was barely over before the human's hand snaked around his neck, grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him viciously forward, struck him hard in the gut with a knee, and then threw him overhead, sent him careening through the air beyond hope of counter.

One did _not_ try close combat against a Pankration master, no matter _what_ they happened to be.

The wrestling move normally relied on the hip turn and strong armlock to send the enemy crashing into the ground, but Alexander put enough of a twist and strength into it that the bastard didn't reach the floor. He first flew across the whole room and smashed into the wall upside-down. The human took some moments to gasp a few breaths and shunt the worst of the pain he felt to the edge of his mind. By the time he was done, the green-skinned killer was screaming bloody murder and crossing the distance between them in a single bound, swinging the half-shaft mace right at him.

Fortunately, he was more than up to the task of diving out of the way. He was even careful to aim for the place where the Kungai demon was decomposing into brownish goo. His hand found the horn he'd previously cut off and his eyes could easily track the path of the weapon being swung at his left temple now. He could have leapt back to avoid, but he lunged forward again.

The horn was sharp and its hunger great for life force of all kinds, demonic or otherwise. It pierced through tough exoskeleton, skin and flesh to find the heart beneath. For good measure, Alexander pulled hard on it sideways and snapped the end off. The bastard wouldn't be pulling _that_ out any time soon.

Javed managed to smack him aside with a screech of pain and clawed at his chest repeatedly, mace dropped in his panicked efforts, all to no avail. This time Alexander managed to roll with the hit, grabbed the still burning cowl he'd landed next to – it _was_ a fairly small room – and tossed it at the Van-Tal as further distraction. It had the opposite effect, unfortunately. The too long lived super vampire threw it out of the way with a maddened, red-eyed snarl. Flames cleared to reveal him swinging his bony, mighty fist at his face. Alexander ducked under the haymaker, but the attack was followed by one that had better balance and focus behind it. A blow with enough strength to topple even the greatest of men and crush the skull of bulls and keep going.

Alexander growled and blocked it – air practically burst from the impact point between their forearms – and kneed the appropriately stupefied Van-Tal right in the groin.

Even after all that time, it was still enough of a man to gasp and lock up from the pain. Just for a moment. Just enough. The prince grabbed his head with both hands and pulled it down into the most brutal knee strike he'd ever delivered. It made three of the four bone horns snap right off and was followed by a side kick to the face that nearly sent the tall brute falling head over heels. Javed recovered, barely, and punched back with the left this time, roaring in berserker's rage.

Alexander could have blocked and struck back again, but the asshole could take more of a beating that just about anyone he'd ever seen. He was healing too fast, and the horn in his chest was draining his energy too slowly to make enough of a difference. So he ducked instead, sidestepped, lifted his foot and delivered a devastating heel strike straight into his knee.

A loud, dry _snap_ filled the charged air.

Javed howled in pain and fell, raging and roaring and rolling, finally stopping to behold his unnaturally bent leg in stunned stupor. Unfortunately, he kept enough of a head to see Alexander swing at his neck with his recovered sword, and had been lucky enough to land within rolling distance of his mace. So he indeed rolled out of the way and picked it up, bringing it around in a wide arc that could have easily crushed bones and sent Alexander flying away for a change, even if it did leave the former vampire unbalanced.

Unfortunately, it didn't work much better than the previous attacks. The human was just sufficiently endowed physically and mentally to lean back and avoid the weapon with less than an inch to spare. Enough to swing his sword up at the same time he righted himself, movements precise and controlled.

Metal cut through bone, skin, muscle and then bone again, finally escaping back into clear air.

Barely.

Alexander almost lost the grip on his weapon and hissed at how jarring that split-decision had ended up being on his wrist and shoulder joint. In front of him, Javed screamed in undisguised pain not mixed with any other emotion for the first time in their fight. His severed arm landed wetly on the floor, spreading black blood. This was a monster whose end would not leave behind just dust.

Breathing was coming hard to him now, Alexander noticed. He'd taken quite the beating himself, even if he _was_ better off. Opposite from him, the awkwardly kneeling Van-Tal glared at him with the kind of hatred that only spawn of the dark and the worst of mankind could ever match. It was everything Alexander had expected.

What he did not expect was the understanding that passed between them both. Alexander saw it, the moment Javed realized the reality of his situation, the instant when he finally accepted that he would lose. The moment he decided to have at him anyway. So he was ready when the thing made its final charge.

Javed lunged forward and managed to duck a beheading strike but didn't quite avoid getting himself impaled on the blade.

Unfortunately, Alexander had underestimated the utter disdain and spite he'd inspired in the creature. He only got an inkling of his mistake when he made to pull out the sword only to have the Van-Tal grab the hilt and push himself further on the blade. "You first," it spat at him.

His next to last breath bursting out as a sneer, Javed tackled him out the window.

"-. .-"

A normal human would have died the moment their neck impacted against the wood beam holding up the canopy of the merchant's stall below the window. But Alexander was more than human, so he retained awareness even after he crashed in a broken, unfeeling heap. The same way he was able to regain dominance even after Javed's last ditch charge. While he did not manage to avoid having his neck broken in the fall, he did succeed in pulling his xyphos out of his thigh sheath mid-fall. Short sword that he then used to stab the Van-Tal in the back of the shoulder of his remaining arm. That gave him enough leverage to shove the demon aside and below him, so that he was the first to crash.

The horizontal wood beam ruined his plan to break his own fall on the tough monster, unfortunately. Javed even managed to scratch his face deeply enough with his clawed hand to gouge out his right eye before most of the world disappeared from Alexander's perception.

As he lay there motionless, the human realized in his numb daze that his face was the only thing he could still feel. There was pain there, and he could even feel the blood and eye fluids pouring out in one, sticky, horrifying mess. Not that anyone was close enough to see. At least not yet. The sounds of the crowd and the cries of "Your Highness!" or "My Prince!" were probably a lot closer than they seemed to him. Ptolemy and Andreas. Hephaestion was probably in too much denial to utter anything.

This… would be a good time to call on his old man. Or just die and revive later… but he wasn't sure how long it would take and he was sure Alexander the Great lived and aged properly according to history, instead of keeping his appearance as a teenager of not even 16 summers. Sure, his old man would probably be able to do something about that, but still.

Then Alexander remembered, and he would have slapped himself if he wasn't completely paralyzed. He didn't need a miracle for this. Well, not a divine one at least. His natural self-healing ability was pretty miraculous itself, and he didn't need the Vril to make use of it.

Focusing as well as he could – the lack of feeling in his body paradoxically helped him there – he reached inward and activated the accelerated regeneration that all his kind had, but which usually never got used because they never knew to work for it, and because after the first death the Quickening did all the healing and rendered the biological method obsolete.

Feeling returned to him in a white haze of pain. Not just his neck was broken but his back was as well, along with his left leg and shoulder, and all connections had been reengaged at once. But his will was mighty, so he barely wavered in the face of the sensory shock. A wave of heat emanated outward from his core as muscles regrew and pulled the bones back in place. Marrow regenerated and the bone tissue fused over, good as knew. Some wood planks and a broken pole happened to be in the way of his healing – one kept his arm in an awkward position and the other one had gone through his upper leg – so he set about getting them out of the way.

Right there and then, the gathered temple goers and late-working citizens, along with the panicked friends of Alexander, Prince of Macedon, witnessed their country's heir push half a stall's worth of wood off his semi-prone figure. It was more than enough to draw their stares away from the sight of the green-skinned monster next to him. The young man staggered unstably to his feet and cracked his neck a few times, one hand rubbing at the spine behind while his other hand wrenched the wood piece out of his thigh. That moment when he wavered against the pain had cost him. His spine had healed very slightly crooked. He'd be dealing with a tilted head for the rest of his natural life, or until he grew the nerve to try fixing the damage again.

His eyes were closed, so he had no way of immediately knowing that a blue-golden shimmer washed over his skin while he found his balance. It would have been easily missed during daylight, but there, at night, it was as blatant as things came.

He brought a hand to his head but removed it moments later, coated in a mix of red blood and white eye humor which he finally got a look at with his remaining good eye. Grunting, he pressed his palm to his ruined socket and, by that stage completely uncaring of his audience, ordered it to fix itself just like he'd done to the rest of himself seconds prior. A faint golden glow shone under his palm and between his fingers. For an instant it was like that part of his skull caught fire, but his eye grew back successfully enough. It still felt the tiniest bit… unusual, but as he blinked and let his vision settle into something clear, he dismissed the matter for the moment since he seemed to be seeing things just fine.

That was when he gave the onlookers one, long, assessing, even look. With all the shouting and calling, everyone knew who he was now. The city wall guards and the search party they'd called together to "capture the brazen intruder" was there too.

Alexander looked down at the partially disarmed, apparently unconscious Van-Tal at his feet. The Kungai horn had finally gained the edge. Then he gave his official bodyguard's weapon a considering look. "Andreas." At least his voice box was fine.

The man gave a start. "… My Lord?"

"Your spear," he simply said, holding out his hand.

To his credit, the bronze-armored man hesitated for just a moment before complying. Moment which Alexander used to read his most recent history. Including that he had little hope that Alexis would survive his torn throat. For his part, Andreas himself was giving serious consideration now to the whisperings that Alexander was a demigod. The young man had to force back a wince when he read the man's memory of his skin glowing.

Without another word, Alexander took the spear, reached up for a thrust and stabbed it straight into the chest of the thing at his feet.

Javed woke up with a pained, choked gasp full of black blood. The gathered people flinched back a step. They retreaded even further when Alexander's hammer fist broke the spear shaft at the middle with a muffled crack. No sooner had that happened that the broken half of the wood handle was driven right into the Vampire's heart. The demon arched his back up in pain and slumped back down, choking and wheezing. Incredibly, he was still alive.

"Tough bastard aren't you, little lizard." The prince was getting ready to ask for a sword when his gaze caught something ahead, beyond the frozen onlookers. It gave him an idea. His father's agreement came almost as soon as he mentally dove through the connection supplied by the holy symbol still hanging at his neck, in full view of all.

Ah. Opportunity.

With the air of a man on a mission, the Prince of Macedon stepped over the Van-Tal and grasped at the front end of the spear without stopping his walk. The monster struggled and wheezed at the brutal treatment, but Alexander didn't pay him any mind as he dragged his killer after him through the dirt. Not until he managed to start choking out words, in spite of the trauma and the horn. "We'll… _kill _you!"

"No you won't." He was unsure where all this certainty came from. He didn't even look down. Maybe he was riding adrenaline. Or maybe it was from the healing he'd just pulled.

"Fool!" Javed spat out, barely. "We are l… legion. Even after I die, even if others die, another will come. And an… another. And another!"

"I'm sure the others will be willing to negotiate the closing of the contract. Even if it takes the termination of their contractor."

"Mad!" the Van-Tal burst, laughing thickly. Alexander threw the thing to the ground next to the well he'd been aiming for and crouched only for so long as it took to pull his Taraka signet off his finger. Behind him, his friends and soldiers were warding the bulk of the crowd away, but with how quiet they were they could probably hear everything anyway. "Even you can't topple an empire!" the demon spat in hoarse, hateful disbelief at his sheer gall.

"Well, my not in the least dear Tarakan, someone obviously disagrees with you there." Alexander gave him one last glance and walked close enough to reach for and drop the rope-tied pail into the well. "After all, _someone_ believed in the motive behind their decision enough to send you all the way out here." He had almost pulled the bucket all the way out, but he did shoot the demon a glance over his shoulder. "Prophecy, was it?"

Javed's riposte froze on the top of his sharp tongue.

Using a wide bowl placed there for general use, Alexander spend the next few minutes washing the worst of the gore and grime off his face, arms and neck. Then, out of the blue, he emptied the wooden bucket all over the downed monster struggling uselessly on the ground just a few feet away. He had to give the thing credit. Even with how beaten he was, the lack of his arm, the two spear bits sticking out of its chest and the Kungai horn eating his energy, Javed still managed to sputter, albeit weakly. He gave him its full attention though, and whether or not the attention of the onlookers was a good one… well, the prince supposed he would find out in time.

Dropping the bucket back into the deep, rock-dug water pit almost negligently, Alexander faced the walled gap in the ground and waved his right hand over it. "In my father's name, I consecrate this well."

The people behind him gasped in shock. He distinctly recognized Andreas among them, but showed no outward acknowledgment. Instead, he just started to pull on the rope, lifting the full bucket out once more. His father may not be able to give out normal blessings with the limits he imposed on himself, but whatever he kept a shred of attention on, whatever he _claimed,_ invariably became holy beyond all measure. "In my father's name" was kind of a red herring, given that Athanasius did not have a true name at all, in this branch of creation. It was a workaround that he wouldn't abuse to, say, sanctify a bunch of arrows, especially since nothing was all that saintly about killing people. Or hurting things.

This one, though, was among the exceptions he didn't mind making.

Once the bucket was on the well mouth, Alexander scooped a bowl full of the clear liquid and turned to walk to Javed's now somewhat more obviously struggling figure. He took a long, slow drink as he approached. Once he stood over him, he held the bowl right above him and slowly tipped it over. "No," Javed forced through flooded lungs. "ImpossibaaaaaAAAAAHHH!" The not yet clichéd villainous reaction was cut short before it went too far. A blessing indeed.

History did say that everyone from Alexander's mother Olympias to the common man held the widespread belief that, rather than Philip, Alexander was really the son of Zeus.

Demonic blood and flesh burst into flames where the thin water pour fell. Alexander watched impassively as he emptied the water vessel on the evil thing with deliberate slowness. He might have shown him the mercy of a swifter death, but even then his psychometry only fed him impressions of hatred and dark wishes and cravings.

The monster kept screaming and screaming even after the bowl was empty and back on the well mouth next to the pail. The fire was slowly spreading on and through the creature's flesh, however, so he felt sufficiently at ease to turn away and head for his next task. "And that, as they say, is that." Never mind that the monster was still in the process of burning to death on the ground in the middle of Pella's agora.

Time to tie some loose ends. "Andreas!" He called as he took off on a fast stride. "Get someone to bring some of that water along. And arrange for some stationery!" The awed man set about doing his lord's will, sending two of his men to requisition the supplies from whoever lived closest. Alexander couldn't spare attention for that, since he only had a limited time to prevent an unnecessary death. Fortunately, his soldiers had carried Alexis all the way to the agora itself, so he didn't have too much space to cover. Once he was close enough, he got on one knee in front of the trembling, vacant-eyed, close to death man and laid a hand on his injury. Light shone again, under his palm and through the bandages. It was harder to do this on a different person, especially a normal one with, well, dumber cells than his. But the wound, though severe, wasn't nearly as complicated as a crushed eyeball, so he fixed it well enough that not even a scar would be left behind.

A harried but practically worshipful man past his fifties was already running over with a full water bowl. He was handling it like a fragile newborn, the prince noticed. Andreas took it from him, since he wasn't going to allow anyone too close to his miraculously returned charge – he was going to be overprotective for months, awe or not – but the townsman didn't seem to mind. He was on clouds just from being allowed to behold their demigod prince from up close.

Well, more or less close.

Alexander helped the much less delirious Alexis take a full drink of water and checked him over until his stationery arrived, tray and all, by the hands of an even more boggled runner, if it was even possible. Standing and choosing one papyrus scroll from the lot, the prince quickly wrote some names and tried not to directly look at the helpful citizen after his initial smile almost made him faint from sheer admiration. Or maybe it had been from the sprint over? The prince directed his words towards his guard commander instead. "These people are to be commended for their quick service and sound thinking this night." He passed him the scroll and started another. "And these," he let some of his held back menace to shine through his tone, "are the traitors and spies who allowed that thing and its undead henchmen inside our walls." He pushed the scroll in the wide-eyed soldier's hands. "Find them all."

Andreas shook himself into whatever semblance of professionalism he could still dredge up. "It will be done, my prince!"

"I know." He smiled softly at the harried soldier. The dark circles under his eyes and drawn face made it so that Alexander didn't even need psychometry to know he hadn't slept at all the past two days. "You haven't failed me yet." He was glad to see the burden of his bodyguard's perceived failure to protect him lift, even if the self-recrimination didn't. "Feel free to give those two a piece of your mind for getting themselves ambushed, though." He managed not to look in Ptolemy and Hephaestion's direction. Barely. "Now I fear I have places to be." This time he did look at his two friends. "I'll see you back at the temple."

"What?" Hephaestion blurted. "What do you-"

Cutting him mid-word, Alexander turned and disappeared into the alley that had nearly brought death on so many good men less than an hour earlier. By the time people ran in after him to call him back, he was already on the closest roof and shooting back in the direction of the gates.

Not the most dramatic of exits, but it would do.

"-. .-"

Freeing Bucephalas from the outer city stables and running away with him was easy compared to everything else that had occurred that night. One glance with his third eye revealed to the prince that the endurance empowerment had left him. The animal was hearty, however, so he managed to keep a gallop all the way to the nearest woods. Once they were in the forest, rider and horse found themselves trotting through the Darovo woods once again. Alexander didn't even shut his eyes this time but still missed the transition.

When he arrived home, no one was there and a nasty storm was brewing up in the sky. The overcast clouds seemed to be boiling and lightning flashed all across them. Thunder rolled down and filled the air, so intense that the wood their house was made of almost rattled. It made Alexander uneasy as he set about putting his horse away in the stable. The weather had not only turned ugly way too fast, but it also felt unnatural.

All doubts fled the young man's mind when a loud, massive explosion of white light blasted the clouds away in a circle, far enough that they nearly disappeared beyond the horizon. The only thing left was a single, white star at the center. Star that shot down towards the earth, growing closer and closer by the second. Soon it was a white streak, like a cloud of white fire and vapor flying over the forest straight for his position.

The white apparition circled around the clearing once and flew low, making a sharp turn and slowing down abruptly once it reached ground-level on the main path. Athanasius formed out of it mid-step, striding forward and dressed in his full regalia for the first time ever.

It was a magnificent sight. Alexander was surprised he could make it out in the detail he did, given the light that shone out from the man drawing near. Angular, white full plate armor bearing an odd angelic crest on the center of the chest, with seven pairs of wings. Leggings and greaves of the same, bright material covered his lower body, and thick chain mail protected the arms, along with perfectly sized and strapped metal guards. Surprisingly, he didn't have gauntlets. Instead, he wore bracers, leaving his hands free and unburdened, protected in just a pair of fingerless gloves, as white as everything else on him. The look was completed by a long, white, sleeve-less coat that reached below shin level.

All told, the awestruck teenager was surprised his father didn't carry a crown.

The light began to dim, showing that Athanasius seemed uncharacteristically irritated by something. "It was Zeus." Well, not irritated. Just bemused and maybe a touch disappointed.

Wait, what did he just say?

"-. .-"

_"History did say that Alexander the Great's neck was bent slightly to the left and that he had one eye dark as the night and one blue as the sky. Now we know why."_

The words replayed in Alexander's mind as he rode Bucephalas toward Mieza. They'd been spoken by his old man soon after he let his godly form melt back into his usual one. It was good to know that his father's humor hadn't left him. That he hadn't changed into someone or something unrecognizable after manifesting closer to his true self at long last.

Finding out that the soul vampire asshole god was _Zeus_ of all Powers had been a kick in the gut. It felt like a betrayal, really. The Argead dynasty, his line, was descended from Heracles. On the other hand, maybe he shouldn't have been that surprised. The so-called king of the gods had gone so far off the deep end when the Twilight of the Gods came upon the world that Hercules had to kill him by stabbing him to death with the rib of Kronos.

Now he was barred from the world, stuck in some plane or other that acted as an afterlife for him and others in his situation. It was just the Immortals' luck that it didn't completely prevent the dead and forgotten deities from reaching into the space between spaces. Zeus had been draining the life and power from his kind in the hopes of amassing enough Vril to eventually punch a hole back into the world or otherwise gain a foothold.

Sadly for him, the Quickening wasn't just any manifestation of the Vril. It was enduring and engineered in a particular way. It was power _and_ soul. Identity.

So Zeus created a large demi plane and kept gathering the Quikenings in it, where they would merge together until there were so many intertwined identities and wills that there may as well be none at all. Time moved a thousand times faster there than normal, which was why it took days instead of minutes for his father to handle the situation. Materializing into the Legend of Olympus, deep in the Dream of the World, had been easy apparently. Athanasius was vague about what he did there, but Alexander got enough to make out that Zeus had not been cooperative and that his father went Inquisitor on his hide before taking the demiplane from wherever it was and leaving. Going in and out of it was what actually caused the delay in his return. The storm in the sky had been a final tantrum on Zeus' part. He'd been able to reach through the fold in creation that briefly existed after his father's passage.

_"It would have been impractical to remove the Quickenings and try to comb through them. The best way to untangle them and restore your kinsmen is through time reversal and gradual reclamation of each identity shard as the backward time pushes them out in reverse order of entry. It will be a long process that won't benefit at all from rush, insofar as time even applies on that level of existence. The entire sub-dimension is in my inner world now."_

_That_ had been a surprise. Athanasius had an entire plane of existence somewhere inside his spirit. Like one of those dream realms described in the Thedas rule books detailing the Fade and its spirits' workings. Hammerspace taken beyond the extreme.

"_Spend the night here, son."_

For the last time.

Neither of them had said it, but Alexander was strangely certain that he would never again be setting foot in that forest or that home at any point in his life as prince and, eventually, Basileus. He appreciated that last night of total safety and security more than he could say. From then onwards he would be looking over his shoulder all the time, watching for assassination attempts by the Order of Taraka and others. While also changing the face of the known world. And annihilating whatever demonic forces had gained a stranglehold over Asia and the other empires and kingdoms surrounding the Aegean Sea. All without any help from the slayer or the shadow men due to them still being stuck in the Americas.

Alexander snorted as he finally reached the village. No pressure.

Something struck him, a few minutes later, when he reached the Temple of the Nymphs. It stayed on his mind while he went through the motions of putting his horse away. He kept thinking about it as he greeted his relieved bodyguards and, after entering and walking to where he knew his teacher was holding lectures that time of the day, his two frazzled friends, as well as fellow student and close acquaintance Lysimachus.

And Cassander he supposed, but he was an asshole. How Aristotle put up with him with such aplomb, Alexander still didn't understand.

Speaking of whom. "Greetings, honored teacher. I believe I left our previous debate rather abruptly." Even that oblique mention of something only peripherally related made him think harder about that little tidbit that was the populace's belief in regards to their prince.

The whole world, present and future, thought Alexander was a son of Zeus.

He was going to savor that irony so very _much_.


	5. Chapter 4: Absolute Discernment

**A/N: **This concludes the first pat of the story, in a manner of speaking. Allow me to say that, other than a few bystanders near the end, none of the characters and other people I mentioned so far in this story are OCs. Either they're historical figures from real life, or they're characters from the crossover series.

That said, I'm interested to see if anyone was able to identify all the crossover franchises, other than real history anyway. There are five of them (though two could be considered a single one), with a sixth alluded to in a throwaway reference in an earlier chapter. Love to hear your thoughts about what they are, and what others might fit later on.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Absolute Discernment**

"-. .-"

_ "Even you can't topple an empire."_

That was what Javed had told him nearly two decades prior. He sure turned out to be wrong. Not only did Alexander conquer the Archaemenid Empire in its entirety (Asia Minor, the Levant, Syria and even Egypt), but he also advanced into India for as far as his men were willing to follow him. All in the space of 12 years. Alas, he'd had to stop at the Hyphasis River (or Beas, as it was otherwise known), and eventually agreed to return home. He was able to stall things somewhat and conduct a few more secret raids on demon strongholds and some Order of Taraka cells, but he didn't travel as far to the east as he wished he could have. His men longed to again see their parents, their wives and children, their homeland, as his general Coenus told him.

The Demonic Order of Assassins had come after him on quite a few occasions, each member or strike force weirder than the last. They never managed to take him out, though on one occasion they nailed him with a troublesome poison dart from very far off. That was in the year 333 by his reckoning, just after crossing the Taurus mountains into Cilicia. He was ill for a week despite his healing power.

For a time, they stopped sending assassins after him directly when they realized they were only feeding him information on their movements and locations. They never found out how he was taking it from the agents, but they wised up after he tracked down and killed fifteen long-term infiltrators and destroyed four Tarakan bases, information on all gained by reading a rather annoying lycan. There were quite a few Taraka bases sprinkled throughout the world, from Egypt to Syria and from Babylon to Scythia. He had to give the evil bastards credit, however grudgingly, for how widespread they were, despite how small the order started out as. It was founded in Southern Levant by the devil Asmodeus when he temporarily usurped the throne from King Solomon, during the time of the Kingdom of Judah.

Alexander would have said the Persians awakened a sleeping dragon when they ordered his younger self killed, but he knew better than to use that wording even in his head. The dragon wasn't a symbol that signified anything fortuitous, and wouldn't be until the turn of the twentieth century. Only then would dragons be depicted somewhat more favorably in widespread fiction (every so often), finally putting a chip into the Ogdru Jahad's most powerful and preferred avatar.

Well, not counting Chinese and Japanese cultures.

A shudder ran through Alexander's body as he drew his mind away from that tangent and tried to pull his thoughts back into coherence. Everything under his skin burned. His many enemies had finally cooked up a way to take him down. Three parts curse, one part enhancement blessing from one of the Old Ones, and five parts poison that was helped along by the other elements, trying its best to make his blood vessels and nerves eat themselves up like acid from the inside. Delivered in gas form via teleportation beyond his psychometry range during the night. It was a nasty way to go, but it wasn't a total surprise it would finally happen. No one died at age 32 of natural causes (well, mostly), and foul play had always been strongly suspected in regards to the demise of Alexander the Great. Or would be suspected, long into the future.

This replay of memory… it wasn't his life flashing in front of his eyes, exactly. More like he was deliberately going over things in order to distract himself from his debilitating, agonizing death still in progress. It was only thanks to his strong will and long practice with his third eye that he even held any awareness of his surroundings, even as his body trembled and agonized in the royal quarters of the palace of Nebuchadnezzar II, in Babylon. He'd been planning on making that city the capital of his empire, but twelve days of excruciating pain and delirium threw a wrench in those plans quite nicely. He was alone with just his physician there, a woman by the name of Cassandra.

A woman who also happened to be an Immortal, and a fairly long-lived one at that. Born during the Bronze Age, c. 990 B.C., her early immortal life read like a horror story, but she was the best healer alive other than him. He found her working as a physician in Egypt (one of the few nations where he was widely welcomed as a liberator instead of conqueror). She also happened to have the ability to lay compulsion on others through the power of her voice, though it didn't work on him at all of course. There was potential for some empathy and telepathy in there, however.

She was one of the first people he let accompany him on one of his many undocumented raids on supernatural threats, though not the first of their kind he met. She was actually the third Immortal he discovered during his campaigns. By the end of his first conquests in Persia he'd built a secret order of a hundred with just as many in reserve. Ironically, more than half of them had been part of the Persian Empire's armed forces before he conquered the lands. Leading to a double irony in that they were instrumental in taking down the main bases of the elite Persian division called "The Immortals." Cyrus the Great had created the 10,000-strong force from his best soldiers, and every time one died a replacement came, giving the illusion that the members were undying. Unfortunately, by Alexander's time the Persian Empire's darker elements had taken over so far that pretty much all the "Immortals" were sadistic or hedonistic demons and half-demons. Their large and elaborate full body metal armors and helmets hid it from the rest of the peoples.

It was good that he was fully capable of identifying Immortals and reading them even without feeling the so-called "buzz." And that most of them either didn't know or didn't care about The Game. Not that many of them continued caring about The Game after he laid out his logical approach to why nothing about it made sense. Of course, it helped greatly that he had the support of Menahem, called "Ancient One" on account of being the oldest Immortal anyone of them had ever met. He'd actually been hunting the dark side of the world on and off for centuries, sometimes with help and sometimes alone. With Alexander's patronage Menahem got to lead a truly effective and cohesive force for the first time in history.

Alexander couldn't just come out and tell them about his divine patronage or anything about their Quickenings and how to use the Vril beyond what they could already do with it. Besides, peak human physical capacity and the ability to turn their swords into absurdly sharp, indestructible blades was already quite impressive. He was holding off on more until he actually became one of them. But he did reveal his psychometry by calling them out on their identities and nature as soon as he snatched a private moment or summons with each. After that, it was easy enough to set up an unofficial "supernatural control task force" off the books. They even picked up a few magic users along the way, and got the cooperation of local practitioners when available.

Some beheadings did happen, due to past grudges usually or the rare time when an enemy immortal was beheaded on the battlefield (the lightning storms were taken as signs that Alexander really was a son of Zeus). But his charisma and common sense invariably got most Immortals to either make peace or set their issues aside while they worked for him to clean the land of the things that went bump in the night. And if that wasn't enough, Menahem's backing usually silenced the more stubborn ones. If nothing else, they agreed that the demons and vampires were something that had to be dealt with. Only one of his Immortal warriors ever left, the first he recruited, and that was early on when Cassandra came into the fold.

Alexander understood why. Methos had done great wrongs to her, back during more barbaric times, and even then he was actually among the ones less reprehensible of humanity's members. He left before she knew he was near. That he was able to render his Quickening undetectable to his kind was a big help there. She never even knew he was nearby or even part of Alexander's army, since he went by the name of Kosmas. The King could have been peeved that he deserted without even telling him beforehand, but no man could reinvent himself immediately, or on the first try, and Methos was still in the process of leaving the Horseman of Death behind. Besides, Alexander had managed to catch a last glance and read enough to know he was leaving for her sake, not his.

The King didn't tell the man that his legend was not just a legend anymore. He wouldn't have even if he wasn't keeping the more unbelievable facts of his existence to himself. Not yet anyway. In the Dream of the World, in the layer of the Astral Plane where mankind's well entrenched fears and collective beliefs took lasting shape and fed the visions of gods and monsters, there _was_ a Horseman of Death. And of War, Famine and Pestilence.

Dealing with the originators of those now too real myths, and dealing with the main cause behind _them,_ would be high on Alexander's list of things to do once he left this life behind.

His body moaned as a flash of burning pain almost made him think he really was being burned alive from both inside and outside at the same time. Cassandra changed the wet cloth on his forehead and kept rubbing soothing herb mixtures over his upper body, but the coolness of their touch was fleeting. He wished he could speak to reassure her, but it was amazing enough he could stay self-aware when the poison was attacking everything including his brain. He wished he'd at least revealed to her that he was a pre-immortal, but he hadn't. And he was invisible to all forms of detection and scrying beyond the five regular senses, so their ability to recognize pre-immortals would have passed him over even if it weren't so weak in comparison to the "buzz."

One might have thought Cassandra was one of his mistresses. Or wives. _That_ was one custom of the ancient world that the old Xander Harris would have been weirded out by. But she wasn't romantically involved with him in any way. He was already married, thank you very much. Actually, Alexander was well aware that his total lack of romantic advancements played a big role in her decision to become one of his Cleansers of the World's Ills. That was the name for their force dedicated to neutering the demon underground secretly controlling the Archaemenid Empire. The name had been Cassandra's own suggestion.

He'd half-expected to have to _dissuade_ the bolder male Cleansers from trying to forcefully gain the attentions of the women in his secret division, or from the rest of his army (mostly camp followers, healers and such). Fortunately, his conduct rules were obeyed, as were his orders not to pillage everything in their path (with the exceptions of cities he knew were hives of villainy, though he didn't have a perfect track record there, Persepolis being exhibit A). However, he did find himself in the peculiar situation when _he_ was propositioned by his men, sometimes discreetly and sometimes openly. Especially after he convinced them that he really was a cordial, affable person instead of just acting like it. Sadly for them, Alexander simply did not swing that way, and if _Hephaestion_ never managed to change that (regardless of what history books would later say), they weren't going to either, no matter what position they were willing to take during such... undertakings.

Same-sex intercourse was common back then. Well, now. It said something about his mentality that _he_ was the unusual one. People in that day and age did not even have a concept of homosexuality or heterosexuality. Even Heracles had supposedly had male lovers "beyond counting" according to some chroniclers, and Alexander's own father Philip, who had seven wives, regularly took male lovers as well. Alas, his fondness for teenagers got him killed, in a roundabout way.

Philip and a man called Pausanias had once been lovers, but the affair ended at some point, and Philip started a new affair with a friend of a General Attalus also named Pausanias. Alexander had seen the disaster in the making even back then. The former Pausanias, feeling spurned, insulted his romantic rival in public. Attalus' friend committed suicide by recklessly putting himself in danger in battle afterwards, to secure his honor. He protected the king but still died. Devastated, Attalus punished Pausanias of Orestis by getting the man drunk and then raping him.

The marvels of politics in the ancient world. And people thought Rome was the chief example of decadence.

For any number of reasons, Philip did not punish Attalus at all, but made Pausanias of Orestis into one of his somatophylax as a consolation. A bodyguard, like Andreas was for Alexander. Or had been. The man was allowed to retire honorably after Alexander returned from Mieza to the capital to take up his duties as crown heir.

And that was another tangent.

Needless to say, Pausanias didn't appreciate Attalus getting away with no punishment so he assassinated Philip not too much time later, dying in the process. All with the secret support of Olympias, Alexander's mother and Philip's fourth wife. It was a ridiculous string of events, but a true one.

Alexander pondered his current state, feeling like he was burning in every inch of his body. It vaguely reminded him of how furious he'd been at his mother when he learned she had ordered not just Philip's assassination, but also the execution of Philip's seventh wife Cleopatra Eurydice and her child. Sure, Alexander himself had executed a bunch of people during his accession, even relatives, but only because they'd planned to have him removed first. And Olympias had honestly done it all for him, too, in a twisted way. Between that and the troubles she'd caused Philip during his life, and the issues she kept giving Alexander's Regent Antipater afterwards, Alexander had developed a startling… neutrality towards the woman. He remained cordial in his correspondence and rare meetings with her, but he simply did not care what happened to her anymore, not even after his rapidly approaching death. Didn't help her case that she literally slept with snakes and loved orgies.

She'd be right at home in the orgy of death and war that would befall his short-lived Empire.

Truth be known he never necessarily intended for his large empire to last beyond his death. Forced conquest rarely yielded long-lasting results. Alexander had only really gone out to break the hold of the forces of darkness upon the known world, and he had. It had been hard, but he'd pulled it off everywhere he went, and learned much in the process, up to and including the shocking nature of the great pyramids and what they were really used for, so long ago. And by whom, or rather _what_. He'd spent hours just staring at the things, learning more history than he ever thought existed, going over the readings again and again and again.

A project to be followed up on later.

He only had a few regrets, most caused by the spiteful dark forces, especially Tarakans he kept defeating during the many supernaturally-related activities that would never make it into public history chronicles.

He'd fully expected the retaliation to come in the form of attacks on the people close to him, but the successes still hurt when they came. The worst of them were the deaths of Hephaestion and Cleitus the Black. The latter more than the former, oddly enough. Hephaestion would have lived if he'd followed Cassandra's orders regarding his diet after he recovered from the poisoning he was subjected to on the road to Ecbatana, so it was half due to his own foolishness that he died. Especially since he knew full well about the supernatural side of the world. Alexander didn't take them on his more demonically-related escapades, and eventually started going more sporadically himself after the Order had things well in hand. But he and his main generals did participate in the meetings between him and the head Cleansers, though he never told the former about the latter's immortality.

Cleitus, though…

He'd saved Alexander's life at the Battle of the Granicus and been part of his inner circle for years after. He'd been even wiser and reliable that his long-time friends, and also happened to be the brother of Lanike, the nurse that raised Alexander in his infancy. History would record that Alexander killed him with a javelin after a stupid, drunken quarrel during a banquet in the satrapial palace at Maracanda. It was the day before Cleitus was going to become the satrap of Bactria. The truth was that a changeling demon had taken Cleitus's place after murdering the man earlier that evening, and Alexander had been so enraged by the gall of the thing, by how it tried to pass itself as his friend, incite discord and tear down both his and Cleitus' image, that he killed it right then and there without caring about the many people present even a whit.

He'd cared even less about being seen publicly grieving for Cleitus afterwards.

He would have called it karma, in a way, if all that misfortune had hit him directly. No matter his intentions or his successes or his ultimate goal in waging war, or the fact he fulfilled his main, noble purpose, no matter how justified he'd been in tearing down the forces of darkness hiding in plain sight, in the end he'd still waged war to get all of that done. And when two sides entered a battlefield with the intention of killing each other, both sides were in the wrong.

Didn't help his mood that conquest extended well beyond the battlefield. There was destruction, there was looting and pillaging, and there was human enslavement. No matter how common it was back then, or how much he used his psychometry to ensure how and where or for how much the people he captured were sold into slavery, the heart of the matter was that he'd sold people into slavery. Mostly women and children, because the men of military age who didn't surrender or joined him were often put to the sword. No matter how deserving the people had been when he put them to death (and not all of them had been), it didn't change that he put thousands of people to death. He avoided it where he could, but at the end of the day Alexander the No-Matter-How-Great had very much been a warlord.

Gaza had haunted his thoughts for months, even though it _had_ been a major staging ground for the demonic assassins' order.

Alexander didn't delude himself into thinking he was just doing what history said should happen. It was all by his own will. No extenuating circumstances for him, and he didn't want any either. He liked to think he at least wasn't a coward or a hypocrite. He accepted it all, now, but he'd been plagued by doubts and recrimination on and off through his whole adult life. He often wondered how Athanasius managed to never judge or condemn him when he appeared out of nowhere every year on his birthday. His son-of-Athanasius birthday, not the son-of-Philip/Zeus birthday.

_"Tell me about your year." _He'd always say that and Alexander would always detail everything, not embellishing or toning anything down. Every time he expected to be lectured or reprimanded for some of the worst things his war had done. Every time Athanasius just got up and gave him a long hug._ "I don't need to add anything. Your heart is a pit of self-loathing as it is. I'm your father, which means I'll always love you even when you hate yourself."_

Kind words at odds with how all his other parents proved to be. Even Philip and Olympias were enamored with their vision of their son instead of, well, their _actual_ son.

Everything had been worth it, though. The kind of… things he and the Cleansers had had to, well, cleanse had been repugnant in ways that could give even the most strong-willed of people nightmares. It was a blessing that he could control his dreams, something he taught to as many of his special operatives as were willing, Cassandra included. It was good that Methos already had the skill thanks to his studies in Tibet, so he didn't miss out.

Alexander would definitely make his way to Tibet to find Sun Tzu's monastery. That was an Immortal worth knowing.

Only one other failure stayed on Alexander's mind as much as the death of those two friends. He supposed that the relative recency might have something to do with it, but it didn't feel like it: the death of Darius III, King of the Persian Empire. It sounded absurd, he knew that. But there was a good reason for it. A reason that had just entered his quarters and was raising his left hand –

A wave of concussive force blasted out from the raised palm and smashed into Cassandra just as she noticed that the intruder wasn't among Alexander's confidants or even one of the guards assigned to the royal quarters. The left head column of Alexander's four-poster bed splintered as the shockwave glanced off it. Louder still was the impact of Cassandra and the wall on the far side of the large chamber. A vanity completely shattered under the impact of her crash.

Alexander looked inwards, took a mental hold of his blood, flesh and nerves and, to all of them at once, _commanded._

On the floor, Cassandra gasped in pain and struggled to push up at least enough to see who had attacked her.

"My, my, she still lives." The voice's harmonics were bizarre in the extreme. It was a deep and scratchy thing, but the intruder managed to somehow purr regardless. The thing wearing the flesh and skin of a man strutted, literally strutted past the bed where the king was lying. "I suppose that if nothing else, this little human king knows how to distinguish strong women from the flock." He glanced at the dying man and smirked in anticipation but decided to move on Cassandra first. Unfortunately for him, the bed was in the middle of the room rather than with the headboard next to a wall. Meaning that he left Alexander totally outside his field of view when he walked further. "My, on your feet already!" The deep voice exclaimed, slowly raising his left hand which had a strange, metallic and jeweled glove contraption covering it finger to elbow. "I promise you, my dear, whatever time it took him to break you, _I_ will take far le-" the last words choked on his tongue.

Funny thing about masters of battle. They could move really quietly when they wanted to.

Equally funny thing about that ability to heal others: it definitely screamed "foreign contaminant" when it saw a parasitic snake curled around the spine and literally biting into the brain of someone. And when said snake was suddenly assailed by the host body with everything at its disposal, it inevitably lost control over it in its entirety.

With the hand that wasn't pressed against the back of the intruder's head, Alexander used a single, fluid motion to make one, straight, vertical cut across the man's higher spine using the dagger that he always had under his pillow. Then the king of Macedon gave his healing skill one, hard push and the snake was shoved out. It was a bloody, slow business, but in about a minute the upper half of the creature had been forced out, which made it easy for Alexander to grab it by the throat and pull it free the rest of the way.

His blood felt thick and his nerves still burned, and because of the exponential increase in the rate of decay he wouldn't have another 12 days to live. More like 12 hours, maybe. But his healing power had done the job and bought him the time and vigor needed to deal with this thing at long last.

"What…" Cassandra gasped and winced as her knee snapped back into place. Lightning danced on her skin as her forearm gashes knitted back together. "What is _that?"_

The main problem behind the decay of the Persian Empire. "A worm." Barely weighing the option of keeping it alive, the King decided to be on the safe side and crushed it in his fist. "A dead worm." A dead worm that gave a pathetic, screeching squeal as it finally expired. Alexander honestly hadn't expected that thing to be arrogant enough to come and try to get the last laugh by gloating in front of the king while he gave his last breath. Then again, arrogance seemed to be a staple of his race, even if it was an acquired one instead of their original nature.

He'd be holding onto it for a while, he decided. His psychometry had improved dramatically, to the point where he could read a normal person's whole life in seconds now. But the little critter had been around for a _long_ time, and it held the genetic memories of all its forebears, which was a lot of info to work over. If he hadn't been prepared for them by what his second sight revealed to him in Egypt and the Middle East, he'd have been so shocked right now that he'd have probably gaped and sputtered.

Holding the thing like one would a random stick, Alexander treated the human lying on the ground to a long, hard stare. He'd hoped that he was an innocent, especially since the smart thing for the snake to do would have been to body jump into someone set to serve a shift as part of his guard retinue. But the man now lying senseless on the floor of his bedroom was an example of the worst humanity could offer. Barsaentes, one of the co-conspirators of Darius' killer Bessus, the self-proclaimed Persian King of Kings whom Alexander had captured, tortured and executed some years before.

Barsaentes also seemed to have a taste for girls and boys not yet into their puberty. He'd been a knowing supporter of Persia's demonic underbelly, and an associate of Bagoas, or rather the snake Alexander was currently holding. No wonder the eunuch (a condition that didn't last long after the snake took possession of him) had controlled the empire's higher echelons from behind the scenes for so long. Though it seemed the goal was a lot more specific and individualistic than anyone or anything else was aware of.

Walking back to his bed, Alexander took Cassandra's sword – which had been leaning against his night stand the whole time – returned to the twitching body of the prone conspirator and stabbed him in the heart from above. He could have made it slow, but he would show mercy given that the disgusting man been taken as a slave and host by the thing now hanging limply in his clenched fist.

Cassandra was staring at him. "Did he deserve it?"

"Yes." He wiped her bloody sword off the clothes of the now dead man. "Stateira should sleep more peacefully now." Alexander's second wife who also happened to be Darius' daughter and fully aware of the true reason behind his weak reign. The political marriage had been her idea really, one that his first wife Roxana agreed to. The Macedonian king had married Roxana out of love, but Stateira wanted to give Alexander legitimacy as Persian ruler, in gratitude for at least trying to reach and free Darius from being a prisoner in his own, torn mind. She also had a burning loathing for how low the Archaemenid Empire had been brought compared to its initial incarnation. It was ironic that Darius had been planning to clean house before the worm got a hold of him. Not that it worked out quite as said worm hoped.

Spitamenes and Satibarzanes, the other two who'd contributed to Darius's death, were still at large but their time would come, either at his hands or someone else's.

Cassandra accepted her sword back when she was close enough. "How did he get in?" She gave the dead, pinkish-green snake-like thing a disgusted look. "Did he kill the guards?"

"No, fortunately." He'd scryed and was still scrying the thing. "He used a mind-controlling airborne drug to make his way in. He wanted to have the last laugh and maybe take over the Macedonian Empire as he'd done to the Persian one."

She understood. She and the other Cleansers had been briefed by him after he'd read Darius from afar during the battle of Issus in what historians would eventually peg as the year 333 BC.

More discussion would have to be had on the road out of the city, Alexander decided. First he had to fake his own death. What to do, what to do…

That was when his father Athanasius contacted him through the pendant around his neck for the first time instead of the other way around. Pendant that no one really noticed until the king specifically pointed it out to them. Still, Cassandra was in the know, and even if she wasn't it would have been hard to miss when Alexander knelt next to the dead man and the holy symbol showered the body in a bright, white light.

Once the beam died down, the King of the Macedonian Empire turned the human over and blinked.

"Well damn!" he quipped, knowing that Cassandra would be having words with him about this sudden ability of his medallion to turn dead people into his perfect body doubles. "I guess I always _did_ look this good!"

"-. .-"

Ah, nighttime skulking. To think that the King of Macedon was sneaking out of his own kingdom, after faking his own death no less!

They could have left hours prior, but Cassandra persuaded Alexander to give her a fatal stab and let another person in the know retrieve her body later. Well, that was her intention but he only went along with the first part and retrieved her dead body himself, during the ensuing chaos. He'd even done one better and left behind a double of Cassandra made from the corpse of one of the worm's skulking associates which Alexander found while sneaking around. The story circulating through the city now was that someone had managed to reach the inner chambers of the palace and been chased off after a brutal fight with the "unassuming lady healer Cassandra" but that, sadly, it had claimed her life. "King Alexander" had been found in his bed, dead at last but through no discernible action of whoever or whatever had broken in.

The fact that a woman had managed what a bunch of fully trained, large guardsmen failed to do would probably be suppressed by morning, to avoid destroying the population's faith in the army. Cassandra didn't seem to care much, even if she did make a few uncharacteristically sarcastic remarks about that.

After claiming the hand device, he'd spirited her dead body away with little trouble (the holy symbol may or may not have cast a Someone Else's Problem field on the two of them) and she'd revived soon after. Now they were out of Babylon and headed to a certain riverside cave a few hours' walk west. With her supporting his swaying bulk from time to time, returning the favor for how he'd carried her while she was dead. Menahem, the only other Cleanser in the city, had gone ahead after Cassandra used their enchanted, linked scrolls to write him a message explaining the situation. It surprised Alexander to hear that the Ancient One was in the city. He hadn't personally seen him in years, since he'd turned out to be a more than capable leader of their little Order. And for when he needed to send a quick message, he had a linked scroll of his own.

Those linked scrolls were the most useful gift ever received by Alexander or anyone in his employ. They'd been provided by a certain witch coven from the Tigris river valley. Alexander had never tried any magic, but with all the readings he did on magical practitioners and their creations, he probably qualified as one of the most learned already.

Psychometry was such a cheat.

Alexander still hadn't told them about him being a pre-immortal. They, or at least Cassandra, believed he was doing what he could to survive until he could tell them whatever information he read from the worm and maybe give them one last lead on whatever organized dark forces still existed in the world. His occasional stumble when the burning in his body flared stronger than strictly bearable gave extra credence to that assumption, though it did beg the question of why Cassandra didn't try to urge the information out of him "before it's too late." Shunting the worst of the pain aside, he pointed his inner eye at her.

Huh. She was holding her peace out of _respect_. She genuinely trusted him to know whether or not he would actually make it to the cave.

Alexander further distracted himself from the mounting torment of his body by learning everything he could from the snake still in his grasp.

His name was Asarluhi. Or hers. Technically the Goa'uld were genderless, but since this particular specimen had favored male hosts, Alexander decided to go with "he." Especially since he wasn't a "queen."

The Goa'uld were a strange race of creatures. The genetic memories inherited by Asarluhi showed a collective racial age of around 70,000 years. A mindboggling stretch of time, but one that Alexander was fairly certain would be dwarfed by many other revelations down the line. Still, it was a long time to be around for.

The society's "evolution" was an interesting case study, but ultimately it had been largely defined by petty squabbling even if it did include colonization and effective enslavement of other worlds. Hundreds of them, with the number probably increasing every year. The former king only sharpened his focus when he came to the point where Ra and his ilk finally reached Earth.

Ra had been running, surprisingly enough, from a race called the Asgard. Ra had even been using one of those little grey men as a host when he arrived on Terra. Alexander wondered what the connection was between the Asgard and the Norse Pantheon, which he knew full well truly existed just like most of the others. Even if the majority of them had started to fade or retreat to their Legends in the Dream of the World.

The names of the Goa'uld were their own, but they became part of the languages of the time as synonyms for the divine elements that the humans back then already worshipped. They weren't the actual gods, they only masqueraded as them, but their use of the sarcophagi warped their brains enough that they came to believe their own propaganda in short order. Ra managed to hold a system of stewardship in place, allowing the other System Lords to visit the planet (they called it Tau'ri) and claim followers, who they took off-planet to use as breeding stock on other worlds. They even came up with the ultimate host bodies for their young, which they dubbed Jaffa.

Asarluhi was a minor Goa'uld who discovered the supernatural and demonic elements of the planet and sought to gain that power. Unfortunately, when he learned that most magic needed a self-sufficient form for the caster to even be noticed by the system, the parasitical Goa'uld created a human offspring via a human female which would have all his genetic memories and enhanced physical abilities. This Harcesis, spawned in secret, was one of two plans, the other being to locate a Draconian Katra to take over someone else's physical body, maybe the Harcesis itself since it would have had peak physical capabilities on top of everything else. Sadly for him, he never acquired a Katra and the existence of the Harcesis was discovered by Ra who sent an ashrak to kill him. To his credit Asarluhi faked his death but had to put his plans on hold because the Goa'uld were forced off-planet by a rebellion soon after.

It had happened just as Ra started to divide the world according to strict geographical lines and give territories to other Goa'uld. Asarluhi never learned quite how the rebellion happened, but Alexander suspected the real gods of the world got annoyed when the number of abducted people started to exceed the worshippers that the arrogant Goa'uld kept unwittingly providing the real gods with.

Typical of asshole gods, they only acted in their own self-interest. Well, except for the Norse and oriental groups if he read things well.

The worm did track down legends and reports about humans or gods wielding swords and calling storms, however, so there were hints that Immortals had participated or outright instigated the revolt that expunged the Goa'uld menace from the world. It was a thing of their kind. When they fought for long enough, either against one another or some other force, the quickening affected the environment and caused thunderstorms to gather. Their spirits basically grinded against one another. Sadly, none of the Cleansers had been alive at the time, or were living in areas away from the revolt in Menahem's case, so odds were high that most or all the Immortals involved had died. Some survivors might have gone to Europe and beyond India, but the odds of none of them taking residence within the bounds of the Macedonian Empire were slim indeed.

Asarluhi kept his head down for a long while afterwards, secretly salvaging whatever weapons and technological goods he could track down. He never got a hold of a transport ship of any kind, but did build a small cache of weapons and, of course, found a kara'kesh, that jeweled hand device of theirs. He only started back on his quest for power when the zealous routine of scrying for his kind faded from the day-to-day practice of magic practitioners and the leaders employing them. Seers were a problem for a while longer, but with the vagueness of their visions they eventually stopped connecting the symbol of the snake with his kind. When civilizations started forgetting altogether that there ever were Goa'uld masquerading as their gods (particularly after the Twilight of the Gods, though Asarluhi never really got wind of that precisely), he went back to his wicked ways.

Over the following centuries the worm made sure to always take over someone inconspicuous but likely to have the ear of people in power, finally striking gold in the Persian Empire a while after the death of Cyrus the Great. Rather than taking over the humans, he turned to the demons and monsters and slowly built himself up as a secret overlord. Or so it seemed to him. Alexander was sure that the real nasties of the world were only humoring him due to his usefulness in subverting the leadership of the empire.

Still, his own power was not inconsiderable by the time parallel to Alexander's maturity. Taking possession of the vizier Bagoas (who stopped being a eunuch soon after the host transfer), he collaborated with the Rhodian mercenary general Mentor in (once again) making Egypt a province of the Persian Empire. He gained enough control over the Persian satraps afterwards (governors, basically) that he was the real master of the Persian Empire towards the end of Artaxerxes III's reign.

When the vizier fell out of favour with Artaxerxes III, Bagoas/Asarluhi responded by murdering him, his wife Atossa and all but their youngest son, Artaxerxes IV Arses, whom he controlled as a puppet king for two years afterwards. When Arses started to plan Bagoas' murder, helped by the nobles of his royal court who held the vizier in contempt, Bagoas managed to poison and kill him too. After that, the vizier, or rather the Goa'uld using him as a host, raised a cousin of Arses to the throne as King Darius III of Persia.

It must have galled the worm to always be relegated to the shadows. The royals were always under close watch by witches, priests and/or magi, and they received magical protections against possession and various other things, whether they knew it or not.

Unfortunately for Bagoas, Darius III (originally Artashata by name) was far from a fool and showed himself unwilling to be pulled by the strings from the very start. Naturally, Bagoas went after him too. Fully expecting that, Darius managed to trick Bagoas into drinking his own poison. Unfortunately, the young king had made the mistake of having the dramatic confrontation in private. Darius was looming over the dying "man" at that point, so when Bagoas, or rather Asarluhi, realized he was about to die, he decided to hell with the consequences and jumped bodies, burrowing into Darius through his mouth.

That was the start of the end of Darius and the Archaemenid Empire. The worm never got full control of the King due to the magical protections in place, but he did have enough of a hold to prevent Darius from revealing his predicament and seeking help. At least at first. Soon, within days even, it became obvious that the worm would soon be just a passenger, so as a last, spiteful measure he unloaded the Goa'uld genetic memory into Darius' mind.

Darius, or Artashata, had been a strong-willed man, and one who intended to clean house and hopefully restore the empire to what it was during Cyrus' time. He was aware of the supernatural side of the world to a greater extent than most other people, owing to the extra free time he had to devote to such pursuits since he was never near in line for the throne until everyone else eligible suddenly got killed.

Unfortunately, strong will or not even his identity couldn't withstand being forced to practically relive and reenact over seventy millennia of galaxy-spanning atrocities. Especially after the worm's last act as "free" parasite, which was to further scramble the broken man's mind and brain chemistry. It had left Darius a broken shell of the person he once was, with random bursts of mad ramblings.

Had Darius' killers murdered him for the purpose of saving the empire from his incompetence, Alexander wouldn't have held them in such contempt. But they hadn't, having been co-conspirators of Bagoas from the start, and they'd seized the king with the hope of torturing him for the information of where their Darius had imprisoned their "leader." They were fanatical enough that they refused to think Bagoas had really been killed. Owing to Bagoas having demonstrated some of his tricks, like the glowing eyes, shield and hand torture device. It was only Alexander's timely arrival that made them panic and kill Darius then and there.

Was it any wonder that he gave Darius a king's burial with all honors? He'd have been able to heal his mind if he'd been there in time, he was sure of it. He'd read the man's state and his whole life leading up to it. He could have fixed everything if not for those short-lived usurpers.

The only reason Asarluhi escaped was because most of the protection spells on Darius ended when his life did, so the worm was able to hitch a ride in Barsaentes and go back to his old ways, ultimately making the mistake of coming after Alexander directly.

Now, he was dead.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

"What?" Cassandra asked. Her voice was really close, as if she were… wait, she _was_ helping him walk. Had he said that last thing out loud? Yes, it seemed he'd said that last thing out loud. Or mumbled incoherently.

Gods, the pain. He actually looked forward to death. He didn't even know why he was still holding out, considering that he'd revive regardless. Most likely it was just his penchant for the dramatic. He wanted to have an audience when he expired. Well, he supposed that the agony of enduring that long would more than make up for the karma of his pigheadedness in this matter. That the holy symbol around his neck didn't give even a nudge towards the idea of calling his father for a bit of relief seemed to corroborate that theory. If only Roxana could see him now.

But she couldn't. She wasn't even in Babylon, which was a good thing because he wouldn't have wanted her anywhere near the bastard worm. Especially since she was pregnant with his child. Ironic, really, that his first and only heir would be posthumously born.

As far as the rest of the world would know anyway.

Before he knew it (literally) he and Cassandra had the riverside cave in sight. Or Cassandra did, because he was only seeing memories. He'd allowed himself to fall into an outright solipsism, that of the time when he visited the Tomb of Cyrus the Great. The Magi that had been tasked to protect it instead broke into and desecrated it during the chaos of Alexander's conquest the city of Pasargadae, presumably so that Alexander wouldn't be able to do it himself. Heads literally rolled for that one. As if it wasn't bad enough that Persepolis had been burned to the ground against his orders six years previously. With his luck, history would record it as his decision, describing it as an act of pro-Greek propaganda or a decision made during a drunken revel.

Joy.

He'd ended up spending hours alone inside the robbed tomb. The first half hour because he wanted to make sure his psychometry didn't miss anything. The other three and a half because Cyrus' spirit practically manifested in front of him for a chat. Alexander would have expected some kind of reproach or accusations, but instead the long-dead man only told him to explain himself and what he sought to do next. It had felt... like talking to his father, honestly, especially since his psychometry couldn't actually get anything from the old king, save for a vague sense of _more_.

It had been a big surprise to find out that Cyrus had been translated. Skipped all the gods-overseen afterlives and ascended to heaven like Abraham, Melchizedek, Enoch and Eli before him.

Talking to the spirit had provided Alexander with much-needed closure. While Cyrus did mourn the sacking of Persepolis and Alexander's other, fortunately few excesses, he didn't condemn him for the war itself, especially since it was just a mirror of what Cyrus himself had done in his lifetime. Overall he was glad that the seedy underbelly of the Archaemenid Empire had been purged, and that Alexander had allowed the majority of cultural practices and customs to endure instead of persecuting people who didn't adopt the Greek way of life immediately.

"Easy!" Alexander's awareness snapped back into the present. Had he just jerked in place? "Easy now, your majesty, I've got you." Alexander blinked and tried to focus. Menahem. The forty-looking but much, much older immortal had just slipped under his other arm and was helping Cassandra walk him into the bowels of the secret cave base. Funny thing about the bearded, black-haired man: he had been believed dead by a fair few in the order. He'd taught or given information to quite a few of them in his life, but he'd been believed killed back during the Age of Heroes. Alexander almost wanted to laugh. Menahem was the leader of the whole order but had waited up front like a doorman and now was playing the part of caretaker for someone who was no longer a king but who he called "your majesty" anyway.

He shook his head to clear the wandering thoughts and tried to read the man. He didn't need his eyesight to do it when the target was in close enough proximity, and physical contact definitely counted. The gasp he'd been holding back in the face of the flaring fire in his veins escaped him in a rush. He'd expected the man to be uncomfortable, maybe some concern over what would become of the Immortal Order after Alexander's death. He'd even expected a bit of grief over his approaching demise, but this…

There was a feeling of haste, some sort of desperate rush that could have bowled Alexander over on its own, but the sorrow… there was so _much_ of it. Strangest was the hope, though. Hope _for _him. Alexander read deeper into it. What was he thinking of doing –

Alexander hissed when his will faltered at the revelations that were being presented to him. He hadn't seen Menahem personally for the past four years, and even then he tried not to use psychometry on people close to him too much beyond assessing their physical health or if they were being suspicious. At least after the first, thorough reading he gave them on the initial meeting. Clearly, Menahem hadn't taken any chances with him if what he was getting from him was correct.

The water spray of a waterfall started to beat in his face just as he realized where he was being led instead of the rest quarters. He welcomed the feeling, even if it barely made it through the haze of pain and disbelief. On either side of him, the man was steeling himself for what was coming and the woman was warring with the disbelief and conflicting emotions generated by what Menahem had just implied to her.

She and everyone else who met with Alexander in person had been kept out of the Ancient One's plans on purpose. Otherwise it would have taken just one of his glances with the second sight and everything would have been exposed.

"Over there," Menahem said hurriedly as they cleared the waterfall. The cave's second entrance was under it, leading to a fairly big island in the middle of the waterbed. "Help me put him on his knees near the middle."

It was at that moment that Alexander looked within for the third time that night and released the last of his healing reserves. His pain didn't ebb, but he once again had control over his body and strength enough to stand his ground and speak. "You've got to be kidding me."

Both his carriers stumbled to a stop when he refused to move any further.

For his part, the former king was staring at the large pattern that covered the ground in front of him. And not just any pattern, like a simple Star of David or some random eldritch design. No, it was a full-blown mandala, two meters across. He stared at it for a long second, trying to find any imperfections and failing, even though it had been drawn in a rush, the work of ten days instead of ten weeks. He could see every one of the twelve immortals in this cell contributing in his mind's eye, as well as five that came from across Persia just to help out. But he could tell that the design and purpose for it hadn't been developed by the Immortals alone. God willing none of the magicals they asked for help on this was part of the Secret Society of Watchers, but he wouldn't risk a bet on that.

Damn. He'd have to discretely inform his men and women of the existence of the society and their activities once this was over –

Alexander shook himself before his mind went on another tangent. Then again, it wasn't like his next actions made any more sense.

Shaking off his two helpers, he managed to step aside and away from them both without staggering too much before he lost his hold on the emotions he'd been fighting back and doubled over. Snickers came first, then choked laughter, and soon he was laughing. Laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Laughing at the events that led to it, and laughing at himself for not seeing it coming in the least.

"Ahahahahaha!" His sides felt like they were about to split open, in spite of the burning pit of hell that his inner blood and flesh had turned into because of the poison he'd been exposed to, two weeks before. "Hahaha, oh you… you ahahahaha!" He didn't need psychometry to know everyone was looking at him strangely. Or to know that some had mistaken his laughter of disbelief for one of relief.

Oh, the fools. "Ah!" he straightened and treated the people assembled around the mystical mandala a roaming, mirth-filled gaze equally packed with unspoken reprimand. "Oh, you magnificent, wonderful people!" He could have talked further, discussed the ridiculousness in front of him, but he really wasn't up for any of that anymore. His mind was losing the fight against the physical and mental anguish, and the last straw had come and trampled the rest of his resistance upon seeing the elaborate design made of salt, gold dust, diamonds and Immortal blood.

Menahem's blood.

Before anyone knew what he was doing, his dagger was out of his right sleeve in a tight grip, and sinking into his own heart.

"-. .-"

He'd expected… well, he really didn't know for sure. Maybe for Athanasius to show up and talk him through the whole first death experience? Keep him company? The man was essentially the Patron God of Immortals now.

Instead Alexander recorded in slow motion the horror and shock on Menahem's and Cassandra's faces, and the gasps of everyone else. Cassandra looked like she was about to scream her denial but the former king never got to see or hear if she got that far. The Ancient One beat her on both counts and almost managed to reach him before he crashed to the ground. Curses from the onlookers barely even registered in the face of that.

Just to make perfectly sure his death didn't take too long (they might make a last attempt at the ritual they'd cooked up otherwise), Alexander shut his remaining, functional organs down himself. Even the brain.

What came next…

It was himself. Just standing there, or floating, in the middle of space looking at the expanse of the universe. Every star that his sight landed on, every star within his field of view, felt like it was crackling against his eyes and vibrating against his skin. Harder and harder with every time he should have blinked or shut his eyes but didn't. He didn't need to.

Even when the cosmos changed in front of him, when it started to flow from one pattern into another, changing from the view of the vast universe into a river of fractal kaleidoscopes and back, he didn't need to rest his eyes at all. He could _see_ now, Everything with a capital E. There was no way he'd cut his experience here short, even if just by as long as it took to blink.

The pull came, then, but lasted for the barest of moments. Just as he was about to fall or dive towards infinity, lightning and fire surged through every inch of him from the pit of his stomach, the spot where the Seat of the Soul was in the spiritual body of mankind. The lightning threatened to swallow his soul, to envelop it in a cloak that would bridge the gap between him and the universe. It would have kept him in place instead of letting the door of death swallow him like most everyone else.

But he was ready for that and he wasn't about to be ruled by a reflex, so he willed the Vril to freeze inside his soul, and so it did. His will ruled it because the Vril was _his_. The Quickening was _his._

And when the afterlife tried to pull him in, he kept _himself_ in place and steeled his spirit. His Third Eye was wide open here, and there was a golden flower above his head, a crown made of one thousand petals. It was the symbol of divinity that all ensouled sapients had. It gave him legitimacy. It gave him authority to decide anything about himself.

With the process momentarily halted, he inspected his whole spirit axis, the vertical line of seven flowers, from root to crown. Then he let his second sight roam over the surrounding space. _All_ of space, one might have said. He couldn't understand much of anything, save for a feeling of safety and care, like a cloak. The shroud his father kept around his spirit, rendering him unseen to all above and below the prime material plane.

But wait, what was it that Athanasius had said about the Vril? That it wasn't just fire and lightning, but the power of creation itself. Fire and lightning were either methods of delivery or side effects, in a way, of calling on that power. Supreme authority, one could call it. It could change anything and create anything. Fire and lightning were just… the fastest and most far-reaching ways to undo and affect what was _already there_.

This… this was an opportunity he wasn't going to waste. Last time he tried to read the quickening through psychometry he'd fainted, but the experience was coming back to him. And wasn't a fainting spell just another word for being unconscious or asleep? With the spirit free from the trappings of the human shell? That would have to do it. If it knocked him out, if it was even possible in his current state, then the first death would go as normal. If not, then he'd have a front-row seat to exactly how the Vril transmuted things, or in this case beings.

Few things were more sophisticated and sensitive than a sentient soul. If he understood this, he would eventually understand anything.

He wasn't corporeal so he didn't breathe in. He did let the attention on his surroundings settle and affix, however. An anchor, perhaps, even if it only led to the middle of metaphysical nowhere. Then he was looking inward, further and further until the Quickening filled the perception of his third eye.

His father did always say that experience and life not wasted made you more than you were before.

Nothing could even even begin to describe how far his mind and soul expanded just from seeing and understanding the thundering fire at his core.

The memories of his past life came first. The life before Xander, before Alexander, before this version of mankind and before even the Ice Age. Recollections of a time millions of years prior to the evolution of not just the Goa'uld, but most every other species known to the current galaxy. Even on its own that life would have left the mortal him so mind-blown that he would have needed at least a day to come to terms with everything, super-fast thinking speed or not. It didn't tell him the entire history of the previous human civilization but it did show him its full greatness, the glory of a people equally adept at the mystical as they were the technological. Where grand machines built architectural and cybernetic wonders while priests wielded the physics-bending power of the Vril as easily as they breathed.

The Golden People of Hyperborea.

They were a people whose fall was as tragic and world-shattering as their golden days had been magnificent.

Alexander had, ironically enough, been a mere data clerk, one not privy to any sensitive information. When the world went to hell (literally in many cases), he only got to know what everyone else knew: that Hecate stole and released the knowledge of the Watchers of Fire which high king Thoth had kept imprisoned, and whose secrets he mostly kept a lid on due to his belief that full disclosure would be disastrous. And he'd been proven right, seeing as how most of them warped reality and called on the will of things that should never have been. Hecate's deliberate discord-seeding and strife-sowing didn't help matters, and ultimately the people destroyed themselves when they started to use dark magic and demon summoning with impunity. The Old Ones, the Ogdru-Hem, found their way back into the world en masse, as did the Dragon, Ogdru-Jahad. The ensuing war for survival was doomed to fail from the start. The only reason it ended in almost complete mutual destruction with humans as the survivors was because of a last-ditch effort to tip the scales in humankind's favor on the part of a booming voice in the sky.

One that wasn't God but who sure helped the people a great deal. He/she/it possessed the great statue at the center of Gorinium, Hyperborea's capital city. A statue into which the Right Hand of Anum had been grafted. The animated statue slew the incarnation of the dragon so that the Golden People, the ones that were left, had to only contend with the Old Ones themselves.

The Vril was turned to a specific goal, weaved in a specific pattern and infused into all those of noble heart who hadn't fallen to the Old Ones or lost their minds and souls to their mind-shattering presence. At least that was what Alexander could deduce from his study of the Quickening now melding with his center. The power was designed in such a way that channeling it, even subconsciously, would eventually lead to thunderstorms and lightning falling from the sky. The more people did it, the faster and wider-spread the effects were. It was a way to give power even to people who never had the time, interest or aptitude for using the Vril before. All the shortcuts with awesome benefits and no drawbacks.

That voice in the sky had really wanted to help them, whoever it was. No strings attached. It even made it so that people came back from the dead as long as the head was still connected.

It worked out. Barely, but it worked out. The attrition war was still doomed, but ground wasn't lost that quickly anymore, so it gave the last, true Priests of the Flame time to come up with a final plan. They managed to channel the massive energies that resulted from the constant fighting on the part of the newly created Immortals and blew almost all the Ogdru-Hem to kingdom come, save for the handful that saw it coming and re-sealed themselves in their sub-dimensions. After that, only a few Old Ones stayed on earth, Like Maloker who would last through the ice age and meet its end at the hands of the First Slayer during the very early prehistoric times.

Well, that last part was according to future records of the Watcher's Council.

The end of the war was a calamity of mutually assured destruction, and it claimed the lives of pretty much everyone, save some of the Priests themselves and the civilians who'd been secreted away in bunkers and spent the following Ice Age in stasis, hidden in vaults and caves.

Immortals were reincarnations of those last warriors, and now Alexander was the only one who knew it. Other than the High Priests of the Flame that still walked the earth, but there were probably less than five now, and they likely spent a lot of time sleeping through ages. He couldn't really blame them, given how unenlightened and warmongering most of mankind still was. Besides, they'd done enough as far as he was concerned, given what his father had revealed to him once. It was them that sealed the "dead" Old Ones in the Deeper Well in an attempt to permanently annihilate them instead of just banishing their minds into the Abyss. Provided no one disturbed the coffins, the Old Ones and their minds would be absorbed and transmuted into magical energy by the Seed of Wonder, their last creation. A magical self-updating astral "computer." The tradeoff was more widespread magic and chances for practitioners to study and make mistakes without supervision, but at least it provided an alternative to calling on the Ogdru-Jahad, his children or the devils of Hell for power.

Now if only Alexander could figure out what the gods in the various pantheons were and how they'd come to be, because they were beyond just magic. He had theories, but…

Another project to be followed up on later, he guessed.

The memories settled in the depths of his soul easily, letting him study the Quickening without any further stumbling blocks. It was a marvelous thing, and he could even see the will behind it, the intent, the love in it and the feeling of responsibility. How interesting.

Alexander spent an eternity that way, just seeing, feeling and being that power, the strength and reach of his soul and spirit widening every endless instant that passed. It was alchemy at its most sublime. The difference was that he was changing and incorporating more understanding and might into himself, instead of affecting something else. _Other_.

Finally, he knew the Vril as intimately as anything could be known through a four-dimensional perspective, so his attention became more and more free to incorporate things outside the innermost parts of his being. More and more he became aware of the rest of himself, until nothing within the bounds of his spirit and projection in space was outside his attention. That only left the rest of creation, in whose endless expanse he avoided getting lost thanks to the conceptual anchor he'd made at the start of it all.

When he was fully aware for the first time since his first incarnation, Alexander saw much more than before. Much further, and much higher. He could even see the evidence that other beings had passed through or looked at existence the same way he was doing. But none of them could perceive him, even if he could perceive _them_.

Good old dad, still keeping him safely hidden from sight. Alexander looked deeply at the cloak safeguarding him from supernatural perception. All he needed to do was… Actually no, apparently not. He still had no idea where to even begin imitating it. Not to mention that he doubted he could keep it up while in the physical world, even if he did figure it all out. That finally made him remember where he'd been an eternity ago, and how he'd come to die and have his latest revelation.

He'd killed himself because his wonderful followers were being stupid.

That sounded a bit absurd even in his insubstantial head, but it was the truth.

The universe was drawing near, now, instead of pulling him inexorably beyond the borders of corporeal existence. Good. The farther his reach extended, the better. He wouldn't even need to be meditating or spirit walking for it to keep happening from now on.

Satisfied that there was nothing more he could learn there, Alexander opened his eyes.

He was met by darkness.

Actually not quite, his sight was just blocked by a tunic. And a pair of arms wrapped around him, one holding him by the back of the head and one around his shoulders. Menahem. The man was hugging his body to his chest and practically weeping for him. "Fool boy, why did you have to do that!?" he was saying. Choking on the words actually, lids shut in a vain attempt to keep the tears in. "Damn you and your all-seeing eyes! Damn them!"

"I don't understand, Menah!" Cassandra pleaded from where she knelt on the ground behind Alexander. He didn't need to look to know everything about his surroundings anymore. He could sense everything in a fairly wide radius now. "What is all this!?"

"Useless!" the man bit out in hopeless despair, hugging the dead king even closer. "Useless now. Damn you, you stupid boy, you could have lived! I'm old and never made a difference in this world, but you-" he broke into a sob and just cried, shaking silently, beyond caring about the audience he had. Not that the onlookers were all that calm about matters.

It was strange, to be alive and not be alive at the same time. It didn't really stop the young king from feeling like the worst scum of the world, though. He knew Menahem had grown rather fond of him early on, but this was so far beyond that… It seemed that absence really did make the heart grow fonder. He'd never imagined that the past four years would cause such a rise in those feelings. Some of it was due to Alexander finally giving the ancient man the resources and help he needed to make a difference the way he'd always wanted, but that was just part of it. The other, bigger part was that passing on one's ideals to a student was the closest immortals ever got to having an offspring. Well, not counting adoption of someone normal. Menahem had gone one, final step further and traveled far and wide, gathering magical knowledge and assistance until he came up with a way to transfer someone's Quickening to a mortal. Because he wanted Alexander to live in his stead, honestly believing that the world would be infinitely better off that way.

And because he believed Alexander deserved all the time in the world even if he was proven wrong about everything else. The past four years Menahem had worked almost exclusively towards this scenario while his second in command, Tidus, oversaw the bulk of the Order's activities. The only step left had been to meet with Alexander in person back in Babylon, after the latter made the city his new capital. He would have made his sales pitch there, and nagged the much younger man until he gave in, with help from all the other Order members who'd helped him get everything ready.

Alexander's poisoning lit a fire under them and caused Menahem to send a scroll message to everyone who could help get the ritual ready to go in record time. Even not counting the mystical application, the mandala on the ground was a masterpiece of art. The final stage would have been for both of them to step onto the magical diagram and, once the others started chanting and brought the containment field up, Alexander would have beheaded Menahem and finished the process.

Like he would ever stand for something like _that._ Even if he were a real mortal, he would have just tapped into the Vril the hard way and gained an extended lifespan in that manner instead. Of course, they had no idea about that possibility, or any concept of Vril. Maybe he shouldn't have kept so many things about himself from them.

The Quickening almost surged like an explosion of light and thunder from the center of his soul, but he managed to clamp a hold on it and guide it through every inch of his body without any outward evidence. No one noticed anything change.

Still, the old man had cried enough. "Ahem."

The whole world froze.

Alexander slowly reached up and laid his hand on the arm held around him. He couldn't help but notice the irony that whenever something like this happened, it was a man he woke up to. Rather than being a magnet for the fair gender, he seemed to instead attract mentor figures. "So…" he said in the stilted silence, voice a bit muffled by the chest it was held against. "I think I might just have outsmarted myself this time."

"What?" The old man swallowed a hysterical sob and sniffed as he tried to comprehend what his ears were telling him. What the hand on his arm was telling him. "What?" The Immortal grabbed him by both shoulders and held him away, staring at his face in stunned, desperate hope, tears still trailing down his face. Behind Alexander, Cassandra had a hand over her mouth. Everyone was just shocked out of their minds.

The King of Macedon let his Quickening free for all nearby to feel, just a few seconds. Enough time for everyone's eyes to be drawn straight to his, and he met their gazes all in turn. Even Cassandra's, who'd moved to kneel within his field of view. Their buzz settled at the back of his mind, as did his in theirs. The shock that covered the small island was thick enough to cut with a knife. Partly due to him revealing himself as kin, partly due to how clearly his Quickening dwarfed all of theirs.

Not that it actually made a difference given the lack of knowledge on their part as to the proper use of their power and the massive potential in it.

He concealed his Quickening from all once again. "There are things you all don't know. Many things. Big things." Alexander tried to smile but he couldn't, not when someone looked at him that way. He almost resented the world sometimes, for being able to break someone's spirit to such an extent, to the point where they think the only good thing they can do with their life is trade it for someone else's. "What were you thinking, Menahem?" His tone was demanding but gentle, much like his father's turned when Alexander did something unfair. "That I'd actually go along with this?" Something behind the man's black eyes started to rally but Alexander was going to have his say. "And with me insensate, what then? Were you just… going to behead yourself?"

"Yes!"

Alexander was taken aback by the sheer vehemence. "And how in Tartarus was that going to work?"

"With an axe," he answered, voice utterly flat.

The younger man gaped. He couldn't help it. Still, there were a few things he could say to that so he opened his mouth-

"No!" The ancient Immortal shook his head sharply to shut him up. "I don't care what you have to say right now!" He looked like he was about to start shaking the young former king in the hopes of knocking the stupid out of his head, but instead he just hugged him again, as tight as he could. "I don't care what you have to say right now." He repeated, voice soft and trembling. "I don't care how you became one of us right now. Just… just give me a minute. Please."

He did. How could he have refused a request like that?

The time passed slowly. Half of the other immortals, all of them three to ten times his age, had sunk to their knees in relief. When the hell had he even inspired that much loyalty and devotion? It couldn't all come from "exterminating the forces of darkness is a much better purpose in life than The Game."

A memory rose, unbidden, of his life before, during the War of Banishment. Menahem had been called Lothar in that past life of his. He'd been a strike force leader that never made a secret that he thought all their efforts against the Ogdru-Hem were hopeless. The only reason he kept going on was so that the ones under his command got to live a bit longer. Alexander – Rashid back then – had been one of his underlings, the one Lothar had died for actually. He always did have an issue with developing paternal feelings towards anyone he was responsible for. Of course, he was several orders of magnitude older than everyone serving under him, several thousand years old versus Rashid's mere twenty-five, so he was justified at least in his case.

The war had lasted a long time, and people were very long-lived even before the last divine intervention.

If that didn't cast this latest predicament in a whole new light, nothing did.

Maybe Immortals recognized things and people subconsciously even if they didn't outright remember anything. Come to think of it, some of the Immortals on that island with them right then bore a strong resemblance to some of his other war buddies. Thinking back, all the Immortals not beheaded or otherwise annihilated knew each other on a personal basis by the end of Hyperborea's fall. They and the Priests of the Flame were the only cohesive force still fighting against the things. Most of the people had descended into tribal warfare by the end of it, driven by demon masters or their own madness.

And Hecate had been responsible for pretty much all of it. The bitch-spawned whore. Literally. She'd been born from the shadows and delivered from the belly of a wolf, or so some of Alexander's not completely repressed data clerk habits had uncovered just before the world ended. Probably a direct or indirect spawn of the dragon itself, a means for it to "reclaim" the world even if she did act independently. Thoth should have killed her outright instead of just cursing her, but what was done was done.

"I've always been one of you," Alexander murmured, his double meaning known only to himself. Or maybe he was just overthinking things and this had nothing to do with any past lives. Psychometry couldn't really help him divine the truth in this case. "Well, a pre-immortal at least. I just concealed it."

No one asked how. No one blurted that it was impossible. No one dared. All of them knew better. In the silence broken only by the quiet sniffing of a relieved man much older than he looked, Alexander decided to just let him have his fill and come to terms with the fact that yes, Alexander was still alive and well. Maybe at some point Menahem would actually think of himself for a change and feel some relief over how his own life wasn't going to be ending after all.

One minute turned into two, then three. Then more. Cassandra took one of his hands in hers. He let her.

What a night. He'd died and undergone resurrection and it wasn't even the strangest part.

He led an unusual life.

"-. .-"

Eventually, everyone did get over the happenings of the evening. Thanks in no small part to Alexander's long and detailed description of how he'd awakened such a strong Quickening. He kept the past life information to himself – he decided it would be better for them to regain them on their own – but he did promise himself to eventually inform them of the unbalanced nature of their Quickening due to a certain soul vampire asshole god who shall remain nameless.

Once Alexander was finally allowed on his feet, he closed his eyes and let himself feel the world around him. Sense it. _Know_ it. Psychometry seemed to have evolved and integrated this new sense into itself. But there was more than that. He knew every wave of the river, every drop of the waterfall, every fish in the water. He tracked each individual leaf in the small tree on the other end of the island, but not just due to psychometry. There was an extra layer to his perception, now, and he knew what it was.

Tilting his fully healed neck ever so slightly, Alexander mentally tugged on one of the leaves and smiled when it came loose and fluttered in the night breeze.

Telekinesis didn't work purely biologically, but a form of telepathy could be developed if the brain mutated in a certain way. Alexander's was geared to other things, psychometry being the most active one. So the spiritually-based versions were the only ones open to him. Which was just fine because they were loads better and didn't have a limit in how far they could develop. He hadn't gained ether previously, due to them relying on a certain range that his perispirit lacked. But with the awakening of his Quickening, with the Vril now in reach, and more importantly with the massive spiritual growth he'd undergone by cheating his way into partial enlightenment with psychometry, he could now do all the awesome things he'd been practicing in his lucid dreams for the past ten years.

"I suppose it's our turn to finally help you get a hold on some things for a change, eh your majesty?"

Alexander smiled and opened his eyes – both of them brown again. Menahem thought he was getting used to the quickening and the feel of other immortals.

He didn't look away from the ancient man but he did motion with his head in Tidus' direction.

The younger immortal's kopis flew out of his scabbard, spun once through the air and stopped shy of Alexander, who reached out and took it by the hilt. Fully aware of the stupefied stares but not paying attention to any, he gave a few swings of the weapon. "You care for your weapon well." He met the thirty-ish looking, blond man's eyes for a long moment.

"Er… thank you?"

The Vril was buzzing under his skin, soaring through spaces unmatched at the back of his mind. He knew he could augment every physical and mental trait and he knew how to do it. But there was something he wanted to try out even more. Aiming the sword at the ground, he turned to face the darkness beyond the torches arrayed around their small ritual ground – he'd be playing with fire later - and his eyes filled with light. The blade he held shimmered, lightning crackling over it in the night.

The young woman – Mara – and the man next to her – Jason – barely jumped which-way in time when Alexander swung his sword straight up. The cut sent a surge of lightning that crackled and covered the intervening space with ungodly speed that made them yelp in fright. Alexander had made sure it wouldn't have hit them regardless, but his sudden action was a daunting one. Especially since it concluded with a tree all the way on the river bank splitting down the middle into a black, scorched, smoking mess.

Alexander brought the blade close for inspection. No damage or even the slightest wear. Excellent.

Then he looked back at the master of the Immortal Order (Cleansers of the World's Ills was a mouthful and Cleansers just didn't sound right for him anymore) and answered his last question. "I think I've got the basics figured out well enough."

He was going to be teaching them a lot of things, and sharing things he'd not shared before with anyone. He could see it on their faces. Hopefully they'd agree to do the bulk of it by long-distance magic scroll, though. At least for the next couple of years. His Empire was going to break into pieces as his diadochi fought over his conquests. That meant power plays and those, in turn, meant assassinations.

He was going to have to fake quite a few deaths, Roxana and his as yet unborn heir being the most important ones, and Stateira would be another. He could already think of a few more as the cutthroat political maneuvering and of his generals and satraps played out in his mind. He just hoped nothing too weird was recorded in the history books after his close family got "assassinated." Like something stupid along the lines of Roxana murdering Stateira and maybe one or two sisters of hers just for kicks.

Then again, with his track record anything was possible.

After that? Well, he did have Arabia on the next list of conquests before his "illness" so he may as well lead the Immortal Order to the area and take down whatever nasties festered and plotted there. After that, a sabbatical in Egypt would have to follow. He had certain leftovers of a pretentious alien species to scavenge.


	6. Chapter 5: Black Thorn, Gold Spikes

**A/N: **Well, this concludes the first part, so to speak. Feel free to mention characters from the franchises involved in this work that you think could contribute to the story.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Black Thorn, Gold Spikes**

"-. .-"

There was a delicious irony to having a mosque for a headquarters. Well, former mosque, thank the Triad. No disgusting statues of prophets or colorful frescoes about some old geriatric's smoke-induced visions to be found there, thank you very much. At least none that hadn't been… revised to show more appropriate things at least. Not that he allowed any sort of false "art" to linger in his personal quarters, located at the top of the building's main dome. He had ways to use the space that were much more effective, and he did so dislike the bright colors that human painters preferred.

Knowing that adding that top floor to the main dome cut right into the center of the so-called "art" that "decorated" the humans' precious place of worship always brought a smile to his face. That it was humans themselves that first desecrated the place as an affront to their own "faith" made it grow even wider.

A fitting background for the Temple of Three-Fold Dominion.

Then the skies rumbled, wiping away his brief rise in mood. He looked up through the two meters-tall stained glass window, one of the many circling the interior of the dome he was in, all black and grey. It was rendered fully transparent by a viewing spell. The clouds were turning black and lightning was cross-crossing every which-way. The urge to go out there and carve a piece or two out of the flesh of those arrogant interlopers was getting stronger with each passing second, but he pushed it down, even as his black lips curled into a sneer. Any second now thunder strikes would start raining down, burning his troops to cinders half a dozen at a time.

He wasn't worried. The seers "working" for the Circle of the Black Thorn had predicted this attack, and all of them said it would end in disaster for the uppity interlopers, lightning storms or no. Still, it did irk him that so many troops would die without properly fulfilling their role as frontline fodder. It was such a waste of his masters' army.

His musings were interrupted when instead of falling from the clouds, thin bolts of of thunder surged upwards from ground level, not even making it to half the top height of his grand base. They split into countless strands of electrical energy and started wreaking havoc across the surroundings. Archduke Urassis grinned ferally – that was the fourth of those fools that bit the dust - and switched from his passive mental domination of the demon legion to the perception of the troops closest to the trouble spot. Thanks to the power given to him by his masters, he could command and control their whole armies just by willing it. He mentally coasted all the way to the other side of the battlefield, a whole league away. After half a second he settled on a Polgara demon and looked through its eyes, seeing the last moments of the lightning discharge that marked the true death of those empowered humans. He could appreciate a spell that caused such destruction upon death, but either those fools were unlucky or they had no mind for battlefield positioning, seeing as how most of the backlash crashed into the two humans nearest. Still, the demon could appreciate a good light show, and there was something he appreciated even more.

The tumult in the sky seemed to falter for a moment, confirming certain assumptions. The day wasn't over yet, to be sure, but even so the Archduke Urassis wondered what on earth those so-called Custodians were thinking, besieging the main headquarters of the Circle of the Black Thorn with just two hundred men? And women apparently. The one who'd just taken the worst of the sacrifice spell from her ally was female as well. Urassis found himself hoping she would survive, just so he could break her and learn everything there was to know about these relentless enemies.

Among other things.

The grey-skinned demon looked aside and opened his mouth, only to close it again and snarl soundlessly. Damn that coward Sebassis! It wasn't enough that he fled through magic across the ocean – a debt of pain that Urassis would make sure was paid tenfold no matter how long it took – but he also took along his slave. Of all the members of his species that he'd selected as cattle, that one's blue blood was the sweetest! Damn his underling for making off with it. If not for the Three Masters' passive endorsement of the fool, Urassis would have followed and taken his misgivings out on his hide as soon as the arrogant sod left, all those months prior.

He considered sending for one of the others, but his mood had been well and truly soured. Instead, he glared at the battlefield below and the makeshift battle lines in the distance. Those mortals were tough pests. He'd take his frustrations out on whichever of them survived this poor attempt at breaking the Triad's influence. Maybe he'd cut their fingers and toes, bone by bone, and finally drown them. The salt waters of the Bab-El-Mandeb strait would do perfectly there. The fools actually thought they would be able to sneak close by boat, without being detected.

Ha!

It was then that the fifth of those interlopers lost their head – Urassis made sure to dominate a flying harpy and watch almost all of it this time, savoring every second – but his enjoyment took a sharp turn when the skies did the opposite of what he expected. The thunder storm was of enemy design, he could acknowledge that much, but the sky had been overcast even before that, the rays of the sun blocked by fog, smoke and ash from the surrounding grasslands they'd set aflame, so that the many vampires and other day-hating minions would have free run of the field below. His three masters had enough hold on this dimension to affect nature to that extent. With each of those humans that died, the hold on the heavens should have slipped further back in the favor of his masters.

Instead, half a dozen bolts converged in the sky and fused into a single lightning strike that burned and blasted everything at the far end of his demon legion in a twenty meter radius. Urassis had to shield his eyes from the bright light, and when he looked again he was just in time to be blinded by a second strike, just as bright and loud as the first, but visibly closer to the Temple of Three-Fold Dominion. Some mental adjustment to the viewing spell let him see the next two properly, but that only served to hurl him into the full embrace of disbelief.

The sky literally split from the energy pouring through it, and four bolts of lightning became twelve, each coming down in a flash half a second after the first, cutting a swath through the demon army. It put a big dent in his forces, but more important was the clear path that was carved from the edge of the battleground to the temple's front gates. Urassis staggered from the feedback of so many troops screaming and dying, disappearing from his awareness with such sudden finality, and even that didn't compare to what happened next.

The clouds were thinner than before, not that the demon lord noticed, but there was still enough of a charge in them for one, final strike of thunder. It hit the temple full on, made the arcane wards flare an angry red for one, futile second before they crashed with the noise of a myriad shrill whistles as the lightning dispersed. Urassis' shock was mirrored by all those fighting below, felt by all mentally linked to him all the way to the portal in the center of the building. Even the stream of reinforcements stalled, adding to the archduke's poor state of mind as he felt even the Triad doubt the surety of their victory for half a moment.

Then he suddenly couldn't feel them at all.

It was staggering to an extent nothing had managed to shock him before, not even seeing the primary magical defenses brought low so quickly. He'd fallen to his knees at some point but he didn't quite notice, desperate as he was to find the link again, a node in his mind, a whisper, _anything_. They couldn't have left him, they couldn't have just abandoned him. The field was still his!

That spark of anger forced everything aside, but it ended up being of no help to anyone. Urassis only managed to jump to his feet and glare out the bespelled stained glass window, giving him a full view of a man abruptly soaring into view from below the parapet beyond. Man, dressed in all white – leather armor and an odd robe, hood-less and open at the front – who almost seemed to fly. Almost. He landed right on the other side of the stained glass and, as if seeing through the colored, near-opaque exterior, stared the archduke right in the eye.

Urassis only had enough time to make out the black hair and beardless face before the human punched clean through the glass that had been charmed to be unbreakable.

The whole view screen shattered inward, two meters tall and one meter across worth of glass turning into a rain of shards. The demon cursed and barely noticed the viewing charm sputter dead as he dove out of the way and reached out to call his glaive from where it was mounted on the wall behind his desk, opposite the former view window. His fingers wrapped around the handle but he didn't even have the chance to do anything more as the blessed silver tip of a spear struck the small of his back. It would have killed him, but instead a cylindrical forcefield snapped into being around him, orange screen deflecting the kinetic force in its entirety.

The noise made by the rebound was like a gong heard through the surface of a lake.

Finally whirling to his feet, the archduke of the Circle of the Black Thorn beheld the intruder with a snarl of disdain. That shield device left behind by those snake demons pretending to be gods finally proved its worth from where it was tucked inside the belt circling his tunic. He almost refused to counter when the human jumped forward and jabbed his spear at his face, but had to dodge at the last minute.

Could the arrogant interloper know the secret behind how the artefact worked?

"That should only be the second greatest of your worries," the man spoke. Mindreading? Had he been splashed by a Nelo's blood? No, that only worked on the same kind as the one affected. The human spoke Arabian, one of many human tongues he knew, but it sent a shiver down his spine all the same. Urassis refused to show it, even though the smoothskin was still talking. "The bigger issue for you is that I was fast enough to even trigger the forcefield at all."

Urassis was the mightiest member of the Circle and everyone knew it. He was superior to humans and every demon out there in all ways, but even he barely kept up with the man as he lunged forward, and the swipe of his spear was like a blur. A blur that became clear for just the moment needed to pass under the lower limit of the forcefield's kinetic energy detection threshold.

The demon managed to duck under it, barely, and countered with a rising side slash that would have sliced a deep gash across the human's front if not for how he ducked under it. The counterstrike pike thrust nearly gouged out his eye but the demon managed to lean away in time. He got a small gash on the side of the head for his trouble, grey skin staining with blue blood, but more outrageous was the loss of his horn. His perfect, beautiful black horn! How dare he!? How dare he use his damned spear to…

There was a chance there. He could sense the gods-damned holy aura of the spear from yards away, but the nature of his own weapon – a wonder capable of harming and slaying any creature – demanded he wear special gauntlets, lest his fingers burn off, so in this he had an advantage. Barely deflecting another thrust with the shaft of his glaive, he snapped his left hand upwards with his best speed and grabbed the human's weapon from below the metal tip, following up with a top slash of his own less than a second later. The man was able to dodge the glaive head by leaping aside, but no matter! All he needed was to adjust the trajectory sideways and –

An arc of lightning surged through the weapon he'd grabbed onto and made him let go with a cry of pain. His muscles spasmed from fingers to shoulder.

"Nice attachment," the human tilted his head towards the golden spiked cylinder at the end of Urassis' polearm. "But you don't have any idea what you even have there, do you?"

The rage that had been shunted aside by the earlier shock of losing contact with the Triad finally bubbled over. He had no idea, was that it? Snarling, Urassis spun his weapon above his head and brought the back end smashing into the floor.

His and his weapon's arcane power flowed into the spiked cylinder at the end all at once, making the golden artefact glow with restrained energy like a small sun, energy that was then released outward in the blink of an eye. Fire blasted everything ahead of him, the force of the detonation reaching outward just a hair's breadth before the flame itself. The windows circling them all around shattered outward as the hot air exploded, a wave of force that buffeted the archduke and made him slide backwards a whole step. Glee washed through his mind at the sight of the inferno, even if it did claim his furniture and some of his better tomes, but he knew better than to stop now. With a quick incantation and a hard tap on the floor, all the arcane circles on the dark marble floor and walls sprung to life, red and purple giving the orange flaming hell an eerie second glow.

There was a reason his primary quarters were so, dare he say it, Spartan.

The black stone of the floor, the walls, even ceiling rippled like water, spat hundreds of spikes straight into the center of the flaming hell Urassis had unleashed moments before. Then, just to make sure, the demon flexed his arcane might and added a thousand more, skewering every square foot of space within the inferno and outside of it, leaving only the space he himself occupied free of spines. The whole room looked like a hedgehog's coat in reverse. It was a masterpiece that no one could have escaped, a trap that not even a dragon's tough skin would have been capable of withstanding.

Which was why he was so totally unprepared for the wave of force that tore a round gap through the fire and rammed into his face.

It was like that one time when the Triad brought him into their great presence and showed him exactly why he would serve them. Except this time he was wearing enchanted leather equipment, an overtunic and loads of magical charms, so only some of his bones cracked when he hit the wall instead of each and every one of them shattering. He didn't get to crash back to the floor, though, because a holy spear pierced through the center of his chest and burst out through his back, sinking into the stone behind.

"Black thorns," the human spoke from where he was holding the far end of the weapon. Behind him, fading lightning finished crumbling the worst of the stone spines, demon magic failing under its onslaught. "I suppose it's fitting, though I did always wonder…" A burst of lightning made Urassis gasp and writhe where he stood suspended on the end of the pike, but his demon makeup meant he wouldn't start to cough up blood like lowly humans would. "Pay attention, semi-horned one."

Urassis glared and tried not to dwell on how the last of the gashes and stab wounds on the human were already closing. Blue lightning coursed over them, visible through the many tears in the once pristine clothing. He tried to summon his glaive but a second burst of lightning ruined his concentration before he could even start. "Admirable fervor I suppose." The damnable human – demigod? – taunted. "But it only makes me more confused. For an organization called the Circle of the Black Thorn, you sure chose strange overlords."

"You're a fool!" The grey demon cackled, or tried to. "I won't die here! You will! Your followers will! Mark my words before you're sent to face the Triad-"

"The dog, the sheep and the goat?"

Urassis screamed in anger and squeezed on the shaft holding him aloft. How dare he mock the Wolf, Ram and Hart? How dare he!? How dare- Before he could actually voice his outrage or hurl a fireball or two, he was shocked again. Literally. "You're dead!" The Archduke instead snarled thickly. "You and the fools outside are _dead_, you hear me!?" The seers had all –

"The seers never see _me_," the man said, amusement shining through.

The archduke's breath stalled and he froze in his struggles, wide-eyed despite himself.

"How did you think the rest of your cohort fell?"

No.

No! Sebassis was just a coward! He couldn't have been right when he said… but all the other fortresses and undercaves had seers of their own, even some of Cassandra's cursed spawn and yet they'd all gone dark. Agents sent to investigate had never come back and no means of scrying ever revealed what had happened.

"Don't feel too sad. You won't be meeting your masters, being soulless and all. And you're not meeting oblivion alone, since every one of your bases is gone and every other member of the Circle of the Black Thorn is dead." No, it couldn't be happening – "Well, except that devil Izzerial, who at least proved smart enough to flee beyond the ocean, much like your underling seems to have done." The man's smile took a vicious cant then. "Not that they'll escape justice forever."

There were no words for the hatred that the archduke aimed at the filth of a human. "You're a fool." At least he had one last thing to throw in his face. "Kill me and every demon below goes out of control! Think you can corral them then!?"

The human laughed. Laughed! "Ah, you really have no idea what you have here." He reached out for his spear and Urassis' weapon flew to hover within arm's reach. How did he-? Telekinesis? Was he a mage also then? What kind of monster was this thing wearing a human's skin?

One gesture and the spiked cylinder at the far end broke from the rest. "You think this artefact was crafted by your masters?" The object was just large enough to grab comfortably by the hilt, which the man did. The top was wide, with spikes sticking out like gold coral. "It's really not. Why do you think that weapon of yours was holy enough for you to be unable to touch it directly?" A golden glow began to emanate from the object, and small arcs of electrical energy were jumping from one spike to the next. "Goodbye, Archduke Urassis. I am very happy to have never truly made your acquaintance."

The demon barely had time to understand he'd be meeting his end with nothing to show for his defeat, not even the name of his destroyer, before the world turned white.

"-. .-"

So maybe setting off a full power discharge of the Vril Augmenter wasn't his most inspired decision. Still, some of his clothes survived, and he was fairly certain that a significant wave of divine fire made it through the interdimensional portal before the trio of Wolf, Ram and Hart closed it from their end. Nothing like self-preservation to make even wannabe Big Bads run and hide.

The explosion was enormous. For just a few moments a yellow inferno existed in the same place as the desecrated mosque. Then there was only the nova – fire and light like the sun pushing the world away and warping the sky – as everything else ceased to be. The shockwave tore apart the majority of the horde even before the flames got to them, and for several seconds there was no sound because the detonation was far too loud to be heard by human ears.

Alexander was more than human, though, so he heard more than the others. Or would have, if he didn't happen to be at the centermost point of the ignition.

As he lay on his back in the middle of a crater some five hundred meters wide and fifteen meters deep, he decided he could attribute some part of his motionless state to his ringing skull. Still, the main reason was the relief: the miasma was burning, vanishing to intangible ash and dust. During the necessarily short confrontation – he didn't waste time bantering or playing while his people were fighting and dying outside – he'd consciously blocked the sight of the three pure demons and their link to Urassis, and that took a toll. Though maybe "block" wasn't the best term to use. More like he suborned the link they had to the demon archduke and twisted it in a looping knot, essentially diverting their attention and energies back into the mouth of the portal they were holding open inside the temple's main floor. All without them realizing what was happening. Oh, they would be able to make assumptions, but this way they wouldn't know what or who had done it.

No point in being invisible to destiny and all manner of supernatural sight if he exposed himself during that fight, so he didn't.

Instead he deliberately ripped Urassis' link from him, the conduit for the awareness of the three Old Ones in this dimension, then turned that sight on itself, in so doing rendering them blind to this world. He was fortunate he got away with just ruined clothing and some spiritual miasma that was already being burned out of his immaterial self by the divine flame. The misdirection had required that he let that power flow into and out of his being, something that turned out to be unbelievably revolting and so corrosive on a metaphysical level that even his blessed and enchanted equipment became tainted from the exposure. The Vril explosion wouldn't have destroyed the better part of the things he wore otherwise. Weakest of their kind or no, those three demons…

They were _vile_.

His original plan had been to rip the connection out of whoever led the Circle and then send all the Vril he could muster back through the link, giving the three beasts some nice burns and effectively severing them from their ambulatory looking glass into the world. But Alexander exhausted most of his power by taking control of the storm clouds and bringing down the lightning strikes in succession, so he went with plan B before anyone else got killed.

Not that it totally worked even then.

He cast his mind outward, getting a feel for his small force. They were taking out the stragglers left, but it seemed that two more of his men had lost their heads, during the short time between his engagement of the Leader of the Black Thorn and the use of the Hyperbolizer. Hyperborean Hyperbolizer. Say that ten times really fast. All told, it was a real shock that everything concluded the way it did. The outcome was far better than he'd dared hope. Coming here, he was not surprised that their attempt at a stealthy approach by sea was thwarted. He _was_ surprised, however, at finding the artefact in Urassis' possession. Arcane spells were a poor substitute for Vril when using it, especially those derived from demonic taint, but in the hands of someone who knew what they were doing…

It was a gigantic stroke of good luck. Enough to cut the number of casualties on their side from an already too optimistic seventy to a mere tenth of that.

So why was the man running over so worried?

Alexander took a closer "look."

Oh…

Right.

He decided to get up, but when he tried to pull forward and move his arms he mentally brushed past the opposite edge of the crater and displaced the dust and ash that was starting to settle. Even though he was a quarter of a mile away and didn't move his body even an inch. What did… he pulled inward, or tried to but instead zoomed his second sight on three spots of the former battlefield at once. Oh gods above, his mind and spirit were all over the place. Literally. His insubstantial self was coasting over the field, riding the wind and digging under the earth, mind sliding across the glass.

Wait a minute, glass?

That single curiosity got his whole mind to shake off the remaining daze and settle back into some form of coherence. Unseen tears in his perispirit, shreds eaten through by the demonic energies, all of them healed over and smoothed until there was no evidence left of the Triad's depravity. Dawning frustration faded in the face of the awe-inspiring overhead view that finally formed in his higher sight. A gleam in the crater left behind by the blast, the stillness of the air, soft grooves pressing against his skin from underneath. The explosion had been hot enough to glass the ground beneath where the Mosque had been, leaving a crater looking like a wide, perfect dish of crystal. A smooth surface would have been miraculous on its own, but it seemed that Alexander had managed to send common sense packing once again.

The gentle grooves of the bas-relief felt surprisingly comfortable against his back. They formed a familiar knot, flat and continuous, ten feet across. A Dara Celtic Knot that itself was just the centerpiece of a Macedonian Star, the Kutlesh Sun with sixteen rays of gold radiating from the core. The combined crest symbolized man's divine spark, the Unconquered Sun that Shines within the Spirit Crown.

Visualizing their order's official insignia while setting off the artefact had been a last-minute decision, one he didn't expect to have any effect since those spiked cylinders were never meant for any sort of finesse. They were designed so that Priests of the Flame might be able to augment their destructive capacity when throwing fireballs around, nothing more.

Some glassed portions would have been expected on the ground, but a complete crystallization went far beyond that. The addition of the Golden Sun went from the stage of "inspiring sight" straight into the realm of official claim upon the land.

A magnificent sight that a certain man completely disregarded.

Menahem jumped over the spear lying some meters outside the center of the symbol and fell to his knees when he was finally next to the unmoving body of the former king. He was gasping with the effort of the long sprint – he'd run for miles – and the distress churned inside him like greek fire. His hands hastily looked for a sign of life, one grabbing his wrist and the other pressing against his neck. The relief that poured from him when he found a pulse was like a high tide. His whole frame slackened and the last breath he'd drawn came out of him in a rush. The palm he laid over Alexander's heart was as much for his peace of mind as it was to keep his frame from falling over.

It was rather astonishing that he got tired at all, seeing as the Quickening healed fatigue as easily as it did anything else. That Menahem was so tired meant he'd run all the way over from the other side of the battleground, over three miles off. All that after already exhausting his inner reserves of energy fighting and blowing demons to kingdom come for hours.

Good old, mother hen of a man.

The relief was short-lived because Alexander still wouldn't move. "Okay, come on. Time to get up." Voice tightly controlled, the older Immortal started to shake him awake, to no effect. "Dammit." With a slow breath, he laid both hands on Alexander's chest and sent a wave of Vril into the still body. It was just enough to get an idea of his health and gauge the state of his own inner lightning, but even that little was taxing enough on the energy he still had that he swayed. "Fuck!" The ancient Immortal almost glared at him. Almost. "Figures it would be you!" It would be him that what?

The former king usually refrained from reading people after getting to really know them, sticking to just gauging truth and mood sometimes, but this once he decided to make an exception. There was something strange in the man's gaze and his feelings were all over the place. Affection and frustration didn't yield that kind of stubborn hope when mixed with guilt. Especially that much guilt. And it seemed the man thought that if anyone could figure out how to exhaust their Quickening and die from overtaxing themselves, it would be Alexander.

The ex-king might have agreed if not for what he read in the old soldier. In the complete and utter mess of passing ideas and memories churning in his surface thoughts, one fleeting idea completely pissed him off.

Alexander's eyes snapped open and his right hand shot up, grabbing the man by the fibula of his woolen cloak and pulling him close enough so that he could send him a proper glare. "If you _ever_ think about cutting off your own head or any other method of passing me your Quickening, I'm going to punch you so hard that you'll fly for hours."

The expression of shock that the older man's face froze in would have been hysterically amusing if the matter weren't so serious.

"Was I clear or not?"

"Crystal!"

As far as replies went, it was a stilted, numb thing, but it would have to do. Alexander thought of pulling forward but while his body did twitch, he also made thunder strike across the cloudy sky. "Okay..." A check with his outer mind showed that the ones who'd tried to follow Menahem over were just then reaching the edge of the crater. Good enough. "Help me up."

The senior Immortal didn't quite regain his steady demeanor but did as asked, carefully grabbing Alexander by the hand and supporting his shoulder with the other. It took a few seconds and more concentration than usual on the former king's part, but the two did manage to reach a standing position. Alexander was sure he could start on a slow walk, but he chose instead to give himself a bit more time to sort out and pull back his scattered mind.

Besides, this would give him the chance to finally clear some issues. Menahem had become even more steadfast and devout, if that was possible, after reclaiming the memories of his past life. He even went by Lothar now, with Menahem as a last name at Alexander's own suggestion. In terms of ways to ground someone into the present and deal with guilt and the pain of loss, it was a weak one. Still, every little bit helped, especially when the memories came with the kind of survivor's guilt only veterans were able to rack up over the years.

Over three thousand years.

So when the dark-haired senior warrior made to back off, Alexander tightened his grip on his hand and looked him in the eye. "Stay there. I need a lean-to." It took conscious focus to turn and face him fully. Not sparing the confused man a further glance, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against Lothar's collarbone. Ah, that was better. Less weight to hold up meant more of his attention could go to actually stabilizing his frayed spirit. That'll teach him to deliberately meld his immaterial self with a super-blast in the future. Sure, he got to observe the whole process, but it knocked him for a loop. Several loops. A dozen hundreds of them. And the old man was still frozen. "I don't need to walk you through the steps of hugging a person, do I?"

Breath left the older immortal in a gust, but he overcame the awkwardness after just one false start, finally embracing the younger man.

Alexander couldn't help feeling a flash of satisfaction at a job well done at long last. He'd spent almost his entire immortal lifetime during the fall of Hyperborea trying on and off to get Lothar to finally break through his own stubbornness and accept some form of comfort from _someone_. Tough and stern Lothar may have been, but one didn't lose their wife and young, I'm-going-to-be-a-warrior-and-save-the-world son without consequences. Made worse by how Lothar saw a bit of that son in every soldier who fought under him, so he couldn't help but form some kind of attachment to each of them, no matter how aloof he behaved. Which chipped away more and more at his soul every time another one of them died.

Few in their company ever got to learn the full story, and logic would have suggested that Rashid would be the last person to figure it out or be able to do anything about it. He'd been a late arrival to the war with the Old Ones and their legions, one of many replacements for soldiers killed or lost, and he was just twenty years of age when the Quickening was dispensed to the People of the Right Hand. Well, some of them. The war had gone on for two millennia already by then. But Rashid hadn't become a data clerk just because he was a boring nerd. He'd gone for the job because it provided him with access to every bit of data available, from paper books and electronic format to psychically-resonant crystals. Well, as long as he didn't mind getting creative and playing loose with security. Besides, the city of Urrasan had a compilation of data from all over the world, with many reports, tomes and data copied and brought in from the other main hubs of civilization, Gorinium included.

Rashid had sought and gotten that desk job because it was the one place where he could still find enough evidence to hopefully help sway the People of the Left Hand away from Hecate. He looked through every scrap of information from old publications to scientific and metaphysical treatises until he was blue in the face. When he wanted to "relax" he "acquired" the files of this or that soldier, especially of the armies he knew operated nearby. Thus, when he was drafted he knew exactly who Lothar was and his full story, and Rashid could say the same about most everyone else in his company, and many of the people in other divisions as well, even from other cities. He didn't expect to survive for long though, so he never brought it up.

Funny how things go.

Rashid sometimes resented his war buddies for taking so many hits meant for him and dying because of it. They'd wilfully or subconsciously adopted Lothar's tendency to grow protective of the young ones serving under him. With Rashid being the youngest of the lot by far, well…

Granted, after the first couple of centuries he was as decent as anyone else at fighting and survival. Sadly, the others never got the chance to lay off on their "better me than the runt" attitude because Rashid started to gain fame for his ability to see or deduce the truth of the matter, which got him the attention of the higher-ups and, by extension, a higher importance. Turned out he was one of the few still alive who could make heads or tails of all the information systems and databases "of old" but who also qualified for field work. Especially as he could rig technology, magical or otherwise, to explode if needed. Most actual scientists hadn't been empowered by the voice in the sky. Go figure.

The Hyperboreans had split in half after the start of the war against the Old Ones. That had been two thousand years before Rashid was born. The People of the Right Hand worshipped Anum, whose right hand was grafted on the statue in the center of Gorinium before it came to life to slay the Dragon avatar. They practiced the use of the Vril as taught by Thoth. Meanwhile, the People of the Left Hand poisoned the land and the air and brought earthquakes, famine, and plague at the behest of the Black Goddess Hecate by practicing all the foul arts she wrote on the walls of the main temple in Gorinium. Knowledge gained when she murdered and drank the blood of the three Watchers that Thoth kept imprisoned in his garden.

Madmen those humans, all of them.

As if the Old Ones – who'd made their way back into the world because of their actions –weren't doing enough poisoning and reality warping on their own.

The Priests of the Flame and some select warriors were the only ones who had an inkling of a Final Event Scenario being cooked up. Rashid wasn't privy to it initially, but the young Immortal figured it out and became a person whose opinion was often sought due to his uncanny ability to spot what others missed and recognize clues and patterns. People in the dying resistance movement begun to call him "The One who Sees" after a while. Unfortunately, he also noticed in the skirmish reports of the final century that the drop in attacks and appearances from the People of the Left Hand had been a fair bit more dramatic than their numbers and previous zeal should have allowed for. The rate at which they seemed to die off or otherwise disappear was too quick, even with so much of the former Hyperborean people reduced to a tribal level of civilization. It was fate's sick sense of humor that the Old Ones often ignored their existence while they dealt with the larger fries and each other's domains and armies. Armies made of former humans twisted by their blood and foul magic into soulless abominations.

The initial company he'd served with disbanded soon after he received his special commission, due to how far it had dwindled without reserves left to be called in. Most of his remaining friends accompanied him and died on high-risk missions after that, often joking that it was their job to protect the "VIP" while he conducted investigations and planted dissent among the humans and demons who fought for the Old Ones. Lothar always came along no matter what the higher-ups had to say, always surviving and often experiencing the lives of the fallen through the Quickenings released upon death, same as Rashid did.

That last fact-finding mission hadn't been the best idea, but it was deemed necessary at the time. Rashid would have gone alone, but as usual Lothar wouldn't allow it, and the younger man didn't have the heart to waste the few words his former commander was willing to speak on an argument. Rashid had been there to see him go from sarcastic cynic to stone-faced taskmaster and finally flat-voiced defeatist that only fought so that his underlings may live to see another dark, ashen, smog-covered day. And not even that much was left of the man by the time Rashid became an investigator and saboteur with his own command privileges. Everyone else in their original force was dead except the two of them, and Lothar applied for the position of his personal assistant and bodyguard. He went behind his back to do it too. Lothar rarely spoke at that point, quietly taking care of his needs like a batman would. Maintaining his clothing and equipment, driving his vehicle when available, making sure he ate, something Rashid often forgot while doing research or during all-nighters. There were also quite a few instances of Rashid falling sleep at his desk or in front of a screen only to later wake up on a cot, bed, couch or whatever other bedspread was available. All of those things happened often back then, sometimes even behind enemy lines, like when playing the Old Ones against each other, causing their fortresses and black lairs to be swallowed up by earthquakes, or setting enemy bases and demonic hives to explode or drown in acid and lava.

Or using surgical strikes disguised as actions by other Old Ones to cause major internal strife among the monsters. Instigating Batticus' rebellion was Rashid's masterpiece. Not that it made any sort of difference, but still. Batticus rose against Illyria and lost, but left the latter weakened enough that she was promptly attacked and defeated by her enemies and imprisoned in a sarcophagus. How nice of the Old Ones to create those things. It saved the last Priests of the Flame the extra effort when they entombed the remains in the Deeper Well, after the Ice Age.

It was an ugly irony that, after surviving three millennia against gigantic monstrosities and their unholy forces, Lothar met his death at the hands of humans.

Alexander remembered it vividly now, that last mission they had together. What was supposed to be a cursory scouting endeavor went pear-shaped when they found out the People of the Left Hand had almost completely retreated underground. They called for backup to investigate further but were discovered before the reinforcements could arrive. Lothar knocked him out, hid him behind a rock outcropping and cast an invisibility field over him – even though it would take up a fair bit of his concentration to keep it up – then went out to fight alone. He killed a score of enemies, plus over a hundred rust-colored devil-like things never before seen, but was ultimately restrained by a dozen black mages, allowing one of the handful of hostile humans still alive to cut off his head. The Quickening release killed everything and everyone within half a mile – Lothar had been _powerful_ well beyond all but the mightiest priests – before going through Rashid who absorbed all of the memories and experiences only to fall down into a black abyss when the ground caved underneath him due to the gravity-altering lightning storm.

Being immortal with his head still attached, Rashid revived some time later. He managed to blast his way out from under the mountain of rocks he'd been buried under and, being cut off from anyone and anything he knew, went exploring the huge tunnels he found himself in. Vast caves that stretched for hundreds of miles and whose roof was too far up and dark to see. Dark the place may have been, but florescent liken provided an ethereal light and the air was clean compared to topside. Dank and gloomy as everything appeared, it was all natural, not the result of the Old Ones' disease upon the Earth.

Knowing what he did now, Alexander wondered if the Underdark and Deep Roads from Xander Harris' board games were in any way inspired by those subterranean caverns.

If only what he found down there was as majestic or beautiful. Unfortunately, there was just bad news after another. As if mourning the recent death of his infuriatingly self-deprecating mentor wasn't bad enough as it was, he had to discover that the Morons of the Left Hand had built thousands of huge war machines from monoatomic gold down there. Well, ordered their vat-grown slaves to do it anyway. War machines that had not even a shred of Vril running through them, which meant that they would mutate into horrible monstrosities bent on the destruction of all things as soon as they were close enough to any of the Ogdru-Hem. And they had rudimentary artificial intelligence with just the right level of automation for the madness of the Old Ones to turn them into something truly horrific.

The saving grace in that whole affair was that the slave race far outnumbered their makers. Which meant that Hecate's worshippers had built large devices through which they mind-controlled the billions of slouching, short creatures. They operated on a mix of magic and technology, but Rashid was able to figure out the basics and set off a self-destruct at one of the stations. He even connected to it metaphysically and pushed all his internal energy into it, sent the Vril riding he signals to all other similar machines in the deeps around the globe and destroyed every single one of them. The resulting explosion vaporized him until nothing was left, but at least it wasn't painful. And it was a much more meaningful way to go compared to most people. Free from the thrall of their masters, the Servants of the Left Hand rebelled and killed everyone and everything else living in the deeps.

At some point afterwards the last priests must have activated their Vril bomb, which supercharged the atmosphere and reacted with all the thunder from the perpetually overcast sky – thunder accumulated over thousands of years of Immortals fighting – and set off one massive rain of lightning that lasted decades and annihilated nearly everything on the surface of the planet violently enough to ground whole mountain ranges to dust and sand.

The recollection took a bit longer than normal to flash through his mind, some minutes versus a few seconds. But when his attention finally shifted back to the present, Alexander determined that he had a much better hold on his thoughts and emotions than before, and his body didn't feel like it would betray him at any given moment.

"Okay," he murmured, turning to look around but not pulling away. "Let's see if I got this sorted." He raised his left hand and called his spear, which very obligingly lifted from the glassed floor and shot towards them like a spinning top –

Lothar cursed in Lemurian and ducked at the last second, pulling Alexander down and moving in front as a barrier. The weapon flew above them less than an inch shy of Lothar's hair instead of clubbing them both in the face or cutting their heads off. The older Immortal stayed that way for a few moments, shielding the younger man in a tight hold. Even when the weapon clattered to the ground on the other side of the knot, he barely relaxed.

The two slowly straightened and looked at the spear that had come to an innocent halt over ten meters away. "Right," Alexander breathed, glad he could at least stand on his own now. "Not my best performance, I admit."

"You think!?" Alexander wondered if it was strange that he considered that outburst to be a good thing. And that glare. It didn't last for long, though. Lothar's frame subsided and the man released him with a sigh. For a moment he almost said something more, but after giving the former king a once-over, he undid his cloak clasp and swung it around, wrapping it around Alexander's shoulders and affixing the fibula at the front.

Ah, right. Only his magic pants had survived, though tarnished and threadbare. Even his boots were gone.

Wishing to use up his annoyance before it mixed up what he wanted to say, Alexander reached out and mentally tugged on the spiked cylinder several feet away. Lothar made an aborted motion to shield him again, but this time the item flew well and true, even if it did smack into his palm a bit harder than he intended. That done, he summoned his spear again, this time taking care to have it float slowly towards him. Only once it was in his grasp did the slightly taller and bulkier man next to him relax.

Alexander turned and set off on a steady but not too quick walk towards the edge of the crater facing the strait connecting the Red Sea with the Indian Ocean. Lothar didn't immediately do the same, choosing to follow two paces behind. Which annoyed the former king enough to make him stop and glare at the bearded man until he fell into step next to him with an eyeroll. The king of Macedon would have cheered at the emotional display if not for the lingering aggravation. "Sometimes I wonder if it was the right thing to restore your memories," Alexander said flatly, unable to keep his scowl off his face. The older man blinked, taken aback by the sudden declaration, but didn't respond. "It only made your whole I'm-less-important-than-you schtick _worse_."

It turned out that the vast majority of Immortals lacked the superior body that Alexander possessed, on account of having reincarnated incomplete and unbalanced due to a certain soul vampire asshole god who shall remain nameless. Athanasius was already fixing the issue for all non-psychotic or sociopathic Immortals in the world, restoring the missing parts so that the next temporary death would evolve their bodies to what they should be. Which was still a step or two below Alexander's own – Athanasius really did provide only the best for his children – but on par with what they'd been during their incarnations in the age of Hyperborea. The Quickening now remembered what their bodies had been like back then.

Using the holy symbol around his neck, though, Alexander could ask his father to restore the memories of other Immortals if they chose to and they didn't have the ability to retrieve them on their own (yet). Some had chosen to regain them, but most decided against it after he honestly outlined just how bad things had been back then. The skills and abilities could be relearned in time after all.

Menahem had gone for it of course, leading to Alexander's current issues with the self-effacing man. Admittedly, he supposed it was an improvement over the prior self-deprecation, but still! "For the love of god. You'd think that living through someone's entire life would let you understand them better." With one last sigh, the Greek king dropped the issue. He wasn't all that sure what point he wanted to make anyway, he just didn't approve of… whatever this was.

They walked in silence for a while. The edge of the crystal crater was a fair distance away. Above them, the overcast skies started darkening further, wind getting louder and louder the more time passed. Rain was coming.

When thunder finally began to rumble high above, Alexander almost missed Lothar's murmur. The words were spoken lowly and the gaze accompanying them was a sincere and wistful sight, more intense than anything. "You were born two thousand years too late."

Alexander stared. He was grateful he could finally walk without tripping.

"You should have been born two thousand years earlier," the older man said, smile wan. "Maybe then our people wouldn't have split the way they did. Why Thoth didn't kill Hecate and blow up the temple, or at least used a few Vril fireballs to burn the Watcher blood writing off the walls I'll never understand. I suppose that happens when you let a snake bitch seduce you, you lose the logical part of your brain to neuron death. "

"Whoa!" Alexander breathed. "Harsh thinking much?"

"I'm just a soldier, or I was." The fleeting amusement was replaced by the usual grim look. "You never should have been made one though."

"Gee, thanks." Alexander couldn't quite mask his disbelief at the blunt statement.

"That's not what I meant," the words were stilted but the frown smoothed soon enough. "You were meant for more."

The king scoffed. "We're _meant_ for whatever we put our minds to."

"Like you were ever given the chance!" Lothar snapped, almost, though even this glare didn't last. "Sodding priests shoved into the frontline rungs of the military as soon as they discovered your immortality. They may have been desperate by that point, but that doesn't excuse the lapse in judgment. They never even did any tests or shown even the slightest interest in checking where everyone's actual aptitudes lay. I bet the old farts didn't even look at anyone under three hundred years of age."

"Like you were any younger than them-"

"They made you serve when you should've ruled."

Alexander's mouth snapped closed at the dead certainty in that statement. Come to think of it, he did recall some instances in Lothar's life when the man had similar thoughts. "Are you telling me this is why you went and… near the end when…?" He gestured randomly, hoping the meaning got through.

"We wouldn't even need to have this conversation if you just read me properly." He thankfully didn't follow up on that thought after the younger Immortal glared at him. "I was old and tired, lad. My spirit had been broken long before that last mission. I watched all my men die, all the women serving under me die. Things just blurred for me after the hundredth or so Quickening I absorbed from the people I was supposed to lead into and out of battle. After the hundredth lifetime of someone else that I lived through, I wasn't even sure who I was for a while. By the time only a handful of the original company were left I was just going through the motions. Even now I wonder, sometimes, how I survived through all those missions with you, how I acquitted myself so well. Especially since I never wavered in my complete belief that everything we were doing was pointless."

Alexander felt a chill go down his spine. Having been subjected to the man's final moments, he had a full recollection of his life, and what Lothar had just told him rung all too true. During a big chunk of his life the man had just… done his job and not really cared about it or anything. He'd been completely emotionally burned out.

"Then everyone in the old crowd was dead. Except me. And except you." The Immortal had been drifting back into memory but pulled back into the now, looking at the younger man next to him. "It just came to me one evening when you fell asleep in the hovercar ride back to the rendez-vous in Leto. You drifted off in front of a holoscreen while I was oiling my sword. There you were, working yourself to exhaustion, and it wasn't evidence of stress or anything else. It was just a habit you'd brought with you from your data clerk days. And it struck me that you may as well have been with us from the start, given how many of the others' lifetimes you'd experienced upon their deaths. You'd been with us at our best and at our worst, gone through every hurt, every loss, every torture and every death. Everything that had piled up and broken me until I was nothing… You'd taken it all and never even _cracked_." Lothar stopped walking and looked Alexander in the eye, a warm, wondrous smile lighting his face up like sunrays despite the bleak sky. "It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life."

Alexander was too frozen in shock to duck his head or otherwise look away in embarrassment. Lesser people would have felt envy or outright spite when faced with something like that, not... Then his mind acted unbidden and summoned the exact memory of that revelation from Lothar's life and made his whole face flush red, all the way to the tips of his ears.

Seeing it, Lothar burst into laughter and embraced him of his own initiative for the first time without impending death or injury being involved. "I'm alright as long as you are, my king," he murmured. "You don't need to worry about me."

Alexander pulled away with a snort, resuming his walk towards the crater's edge and the small group of spectators waiting there. "We'll have to disagree on that last bit!" What a deja-vu, to be told something like that.

"By your will." The old man didn't even try to pretend he wasn't amused by the conclusion of their talk.

Well, at least it was progress.

"-. .-"

_Grieve for the lost, but rejoice at the good fortune that turned a pyrrhic victory into a glorious one. Besides, those fallen today will eventually return, unless they get the chance to choose heaven over another stint in this troublesome world. Like the rest of us, they've returned at least once before. So live well until then._

It took a couple of months for them all to return from the Arabian Peninsula and for everything relevant to be distributed among the members or stored away in warded hideouts, but the Order of Custodians was officially disbanded. At least until the next big issue came up. Alexander already had some ideas for that, but nothing too pressing was happening on their side of the Atlantic. More importantly, it was high time he went home and stayed there for more than a month at a time.

_It's a shame to see that symbol covered up,_ Tidus had said as they watched rainwater pool and accumulate in the crater they were gathered around. _You think the holy ground will make fish grow bigger? I seem to be getting a craving for some giant trout. _

Ah, his warriors were such a riot.

His horse Aithon thundered down the dirt path, kicking up dust like a cloud as he galloped. There wasn't a too drastic need for haste, but Alexander was really eager to get home now that the last of the main threats against mankind had been crippled or wiped from this part of the world. He'd considered asking his father to shift him to the right forest four times on the ride over, but each time decided against such a frivolous use of that sacred boon. Besides, even going the long way he would arrive a few days prior to his son's fifth birthday.

He finally reached Darovo but didn't stop. He barely slowed his horse, choosing instead to charge right through, taking advantage of how most everyone was still inside their homes or yards at that time of the morning. It was also fortunate that there were no people he'd feel obligated to visit here. He wondered if maybe it would have been a better idea to not ask everyone where they were going. Sadly, he'd been more than determined to make sure they had the resources needed to resume their lives or start new ones, so the question had had to be asked.

_I'm thinking of a quiet life in a village,_ Lothar had said ponderingly. _I hear Darovo has a nice community._

That sneaky old bastard. While he wouldn't be forcing himself into "his king's" life, Lothar was too stubborn to live anywhere further than an hour's horse ride away. The memory should have been at least mildly annoying but it made Alexander grin instead. He owed it to his self-control that he didn't burst into laughter at the nerve of that man.

He didn't suppress his delight when he finally passed the tree line into the forest though. Just ten more minutes and he'd see his wife and son again, in the flesh instead of dreams, shared or not.

He counted down the seconds and, sure enough, ten minutes later he burst into the clearing where he grew up under the tender loving care of a god. There was no one outside and no noises were coming from the workshop, so the denizens were either still in bed or getting water from the spring. Aithon slowed to a trot then fell back into a steady march until he stopped completely in front of the stable where Bob would have still lived if he hadn't died in a battle in India.

Quickly but properly putting the horse and tack away, Alexander turned towards the house only to see the long-yearned-for sight of his wife waiting for him on the steps in nothing but her white nightgown.

Not that the image lasted long. The moment she was off the porch Roxana ran towards him, so he met her half-way, gathering her into a tight, long embrace. Heavens, he'd missed her more than he realized and her soul was bright and warm, more so than the last time he saw her. His father had taught her well, just as he said he would. It made him reach out until their spirits touched.

Though only for a fleeting instant, her small flame became a sun to match his own. A moment that lasted forever and no time at all. Then it was over and they got around to sharing the kind of long, tender kiss that only long times apart tended to build up, when absence made the heart grow fonder. Through it all, his attention focused on nothing other than her, from the tips of her toes to her hazel eyes and the long, dark brown hair braided behind her back.

Once the euphoria of the reunion settled to a manageable level, Alexander laid his forehead on hers and sighed, eyes closed. "I love you." They were such simple words.

"I love you." Adding anything would have cheapened them. "Welcome home, husband." She opened her eyes and stared in his once he did the same. She was about to ask the question Alexander was expecting, but chance had other plans.

"Papa!"

Roxana quickly took a few steps back to avoid the armful of not-quite-five-year-old-boy that attacked Alexander like a human missile. Fortunately, the man crouched in time to catch him and gave him a spin before coming to a stop, holding him aloft from under the arms. "Ah, Aegus. Not quite managed to gain the power of flight, have you?" They'd decided to leave Alexander as the middle name but that his son deserved a first name that wouldn't pressure him to live up to any legacy.

The black-haired boy giggled and held out his arms so Alexander gave him a proper hug, relishing the feel of those small arms around his neck. "I've missed you dear one." Not having forgotten about his wife, he held out an arm to invite her to share the hug, which she gladly did.

"Such an interesting sight you two make, husband." She'd lain her head on Alexander's shoulder and was giving Aegus a gimlet stare. "Not even a day ago your son refused to accept an embrace from me due to the gesture not being manly, or so I believe were his words."

The boy shot her a betrayed look that turned contrite at his father's raised eyebrow. "Is that so?" Alexander asked.

Being not quite five, the child did what any child would do in such a situation. Try to change the subject. "Oh! Oh! Let me show you what grandfather taught me! I've been practicing so I could show you!" Aegus then leaned back and closed his eyes in concentration, releasing his father and pressing both palms together.

Alexander adjusted his hold and exchanged a knowing look with his wife but nonetheless allowed the boy his moment.

Or minute, as it turned out. That was how long it took him to do what he was trying to do.

"Just a little more… there!" He opened his brown eyes in triumph and pulled his hands apart, revealing a small ball of red fire hovering between them. "See! I did it! Soon I'll be able to make them large, just like mother!"

The King of Macedon thought back to his amazing ability to burn down the workshop without any powers to speak of and refrained from wincing. Fortunately, he was quick of wit and got an idea. "I'm afraid you've got this wrong, dear one." Aegus frowned – pretty cutely too – but managed not to lose concentration. Not bad, even if it was just a cantrip. "There's one step you need to master before you try to do anything bigger." Keeping his face serious, he reached up and waved his hand over the space above the small fireball, turning it into a tiny phoenix that proceeded to fly around their heads and settle on Roxana's shoulder. "Visualization."

Aegus stared at the detailed bird in childish wonder. Feeling adventurous, Alexander weaved the Vril so that the small bird would last for a few hours and have a semblance of self-animation. The flames wavered for a moment, then the mini-phoenix took flight and started to whisk about the yard like a butterfly.

Aegus mournfully reached out in a vain attempt to call it back, so after another knowing look shared with his wide, Alexander set him on the ground and let him go play.

"Are you staying?" Roxana asked quietly.

"Until he reaches his late teens at the very least, I think." His wife's embrace tightened for a moment. He rested his chin on her head while they both watched their son running and laughing. "All the big problems have been sorted out, at least for a time." He stroked her hair. "I'll dream about it with you tonight if you like?"

"Perhaps tomorrow or the day after. Let's just leave today for us."

He wasn't exactly looking forward to reliving anything of that last, long campaign against the Three Stooges so he was more than glad for the delay. "Let me guess," Alexander's lips curled in a smile. "Father suddenly had a reason to be away and won't be back for about that long?"

Roxana just chuckled but didn't answer.

She didn't really need to.

They spent ten minutes just holding each other and watching their son play with the firebird before they were ready to get back to anything remotely resembling the routine of life. Asking whether or not she wanted help with breakfast was on the tip of Alexander's tongue when Aegus got frustrated with his failure to catch the bird and managed to summon a small orb of fire and hurl it after it.

Needless to say, the tiny fireball missed, hit a bale of hay and managed to light it on fire.

Alexander stared for a few seconds, then sighed. "How about you get started on breakfast and I rein our son in before he burns down the stables?"

He could almost hear her lips drawing together. "Perhaps that would be for the best." Then she went back into the house from whence sounds suspiciously like laughter started coming not long after.

While he absentmindedly snuffed out the small fire with a wave of his hand, Alexander the Great couldn't help but wonder how much trouble his son had caused Roxana and Athanasius and whether or not there were any white-browed long-suffering stares scheduled for him in the near future. Maybe he should tweak his self-imposed restrictions on using his all-seeing eyes? Just a bit couldn't hurt that much…

He considered the prospect of a marriage and fatherhood that would never have any surprises for him.

He shuddered at the thought of such utter boredom and immediately dismissed the idea. Seriously, what was he thinking?


	7. Chapter 6: To the Center of the World

**A/N: **A new one! I originally wanted to get all the way to the actual meeting with the first of the big cheeses, but I decided to stop once I neared 15,000 words.

Enjoy yourselves... or else!

* * *

**Chapter 6: Journey to the Center of the World**

"-. .-"

The desert was pristine.

People generally never got to realize just how wondrous a barren wasteland was. Not that he could blame them, Alexander supposed. Between blinding sunlight, heart-stopping heat and precious little water, not to mention the dust and sandstorms, the common man never really got the chance to even start contemplating the benefits of being away from civilization, if they survived more than a day to begin with. Little wonder that hermits only ever settled down in wood huts or caves. Or the occasional oasis. However, for those who lived by the adage of mind over matter there weren't many places better suited for meditation and ascetic contemplation than the wastes. Simply because the currents of misqualified emotion and thought clutter didn't exist there.

The astral plane was _clean_.

More importantly, the higher reflection of the endless expanse of sand dunes was far removed from the natural view. As he walked down the dune without disturbing even a single grain – an elementary task for someone who could fly – Alexander didn't bother to look where he was going. Or to pay too much mind to his companion who was all too humanly trudging through the shifting sand at his side. His closed eyelids instead allowed him to see a different landscape, a memory of different times not so long past. It was something to cherish, the sight of Africa-that-Was, a place of greenery, steppes and stone-wrought city-kingdoms not unlike the Aztec, Incan and Mayan peoples from beyond the ocean. For all that the "real" Sahara desert was vast and dry, arid beyond all hope of sustaining life save for a handful or oases and roughlands, it was so very _young_. It only predated the rise of the Mesopotamian people and old Egypt by a handful of centuries.

Sahara was a lush place once, none of which had survived the terrible cataclysm brought about by the seven headed dragon before it was slain by the prehistoric African king Makoma, "he who is greatest and without fear." Their terrible confrontation changed the face of the world in the most literal sense. It was a grim irony that the Ogdru Jahad employed the same thing used by the last Priests of the Flame to end the age of the Old Ones. A rain of lightning without clouds, just indiscriminate destruction that ground a fourth of Africa to nothing.

He still wondered how that even worked. The Vril wasn't something that such a creature should be able to even conceive of touching. Perhaps a temporal fold that allowed the final solution to exist in two points in time then? It would fit the nature of such creatures, to twist even the greatest works of mankind towards wretched purposes.

_I am Time, the ruin of all things that live, land, sea and all flesh!_

A lesser man would have shivered at the memory of the Beast as it boasted, before the statue of Anum came to life and destroyed the avatar along with most of Gorinium. Rashid hadn't been there for it, as the event predated his birth by two millennia, but one of the many people whose Quickenings he absorbed had been close enough to see and hear the climax of the confrontation.

Looking at it now, it was hard to imagine that Sahara had once been lush with greenery and animal life, and home to human cities and fortresses of wood and stone. Granted, humans lived all around the world even then, but central Africa was where the most advanced societies were located. It made the cataclysm even more tragic. Mankind was basically cut down in its infancy just as it was starting to climb back out of the hole it had crawled out of after the Ice Age. The Stone Age that archeologists later pinned down (_would_ pin down) was actually the period following the catastrophe, when the remnants gathered in the Nile valley, or migrated to the north and east to piece what they could back together.

It was a common pattern in Alexander's life now, to find that many of the "facts" destined to be recorded by modern historians were just reflections of older times vanished without a trace. His battle that saw the end of the Triad's influence on that side of the Atlantic was one of the most blatant examples, for the simple fact that the temple was a _mosque._ Islam wasn't bound to emerge until the year 622 AD when Muhammad emigrated from Mecca, something Alexander only knew because it was one of many off-hand comments made by Giles during research sessions. It now turned out that Islam almost got to predate Christianity but was totally stamped out in its early stages by the demon agents and armies of the Wolf, Ram and Hart, with a fair bit of unknowing help from the Persians and Greek themselves thrown in for good measure.

Many in their order had been stunned into silence when they discovered how abhorrently successful the Circle of the Black Thorn had been in stomping out true prophets and schools of spirit. Only the religions that were already well entrenched during to the Age of Heroes were still going strong, which more or less negated the intended benefits of the Twilight of the Gods. The move to a more enlightened way of thought free of meddling busybodies like the Olympians had effectively been stopped in its tracks.

Alexander had some not at all flattering suspicions about the Greek gods, and gods in general. The timing of their initial active participation in the world of men was too odd – right as the Goa'uld were kicked off planet – and it was why he was on that journey of his. During the past fifteen odd years spent with his wife and raising his son he'd had a lot of time to think about everything he'd discovered since he was reborn in this era.

For one thing, he realized that his initial suspicion of why the Goa'uld lasted so long before being kicked off world might have been somewhat biased. He'd initially surmised that the active worship demanded by the aliens was beneficial to the real powers of the world, but in hindsight that couldn't be true. The people had real, living, _visible_ figures to aim their devotion or fear at. Intent and attention were critical in the flow of energy, and emotions, thoughts and the spirit fell under that. So when men worshipped the Goa'uld as gods they did precisely that: worshipped them as gods. Their worship didn't actually flow to the real ones, even if they shared the same names.

There was also the bit about the aliens having spread all across the world as time went by, including places where the gods weren't assholes. And yet those gods only manifested properly in the world just after the rebellion's success became a foregone conclusion. They didn't actually _start_ it. More like they helped with the last big push in the case of Hindu and Zoroastrian manifestations, or just showed up near the end to take the credit for it in the case of the Greek Pantheon.

It was an insidious pattern, Alexander realized. Humanity builds a great civilization, some idiot goddess invites destruction into the world and brings it all down. The last Priests and Immortals sacrifice themselves to give the world a chance to recover and move on? The world recovers from the ice age, only for some idiot to invite the Ogdru Jahad into the world, bringing the new civilization down. Probably by collaborating with or being manipulated by Ahriman the First Evil, whose real identity was Ilkin-Hem, firstborn of the Destroyer. Inasmuch as any of the Ogdru-Hem could be considered to have been born. Makoma sacrifices himself to kill the Dragon's avatar and give the world another chance to move on? Aliens come and masquerade as gods, using stolen power and terror to eliminate progress and suppress man's creativity. A successful rebellion ousts the Goa'uld and gives the world another chance to move on? Asshole gods like the Greek pantheon sweep in and take the credit, just so they can do the job of ruling and "guiding" the world properly. As if that wasn't bad enough, their loath-worthy system of control over the populace through "domains" twists and tears the astral and mental planes enough that the First Evil nearly brings the Ogdru Jahad into the world again. A demigod and a human woman end up having to clean up that mess as well, only for the gods to turn on them next, despite Dahak's defeat basically saving their collective asses. And when Hercules and the Warrior Princess kill the worst of the lot and give the world yet another chance to move on? A demon cartel systematically murders every following attempt at establishing a true religion or ascetic schools of thought over the next fifteen hundred years.

No wonder Tak'Ne looked fit to be tied when he returned from the Far East and got an unedited version of their findings. His disbelief at having missed the monumental events of the past few decades paled compared to how much Alexander's conjectures pissed him off. Tak'Ne and Lothar were (very) old acquaintances, the latter having mentored the former like he did many other immortals starting out. But while they'd been both involved in the anti-Goa'uld movement, Tak'Ne had a much greater stake in it – and the aftermath – by virtue of having effectively organized and led the whole damn thing. Well, him and Kon'Or, who unfortunately died in the final stages of the decades-spanning guerilla war. The two successfully coordinated hundreds of immortals and thousands of mortals from around the world towards ousting the alien bastards in one fell swoop. It was a shame that most of the big fish survived long enough to flee. As for the deities that took over afterwards, maybe the rapid rise in religious rituals and magical practices used during the rebellion, many of which called upon the "true" powers of the planet, were why the gods found a door into the world the way they did, at the end.

The former king wasn't sure that was it, though, which was why he had embarked on this trip through the Sahara sands.

Alexander Argead wanted facts.

He wanted facts and he had an idea of how to get them, courtesy of twelve emerald tablets he'd been guided towards by an old and tortured priest of Khem he found and freed during his time wiping the Tarakans and Black Thorn from the face of the known world. Tablets belonging to the single very high profile individual of ancient Hyperborea whose (non)disappearance no one ever managed to account for. A mystery that might, at last, be uncovered.

_A hundred times ten have I descended the dark way that led into light, and as many times have I ascended from the darkness into the light, my strength and power renewed._

One of many stanzas etched on fourteen tablets created through mystical transmutation. Fourteen emerald tablets with fixed cellular structure, meaning that no change could take place in them, effectively violating the material law of ionization. It made them imperishable, resistant to all elements, corrosion and acids. Such was the wonder of true alchemy. Hoops of monoatomic gold suspended from a rod of the same material held the tablets in place, like a book.

He'd like to see Hyperborea's ancestors, the Alterans, try to replicate the properties of those tablets with technology alone.

Fat chance.

More importantly, the writing on them was the language used in Hyperborea. Lemurian. _The Written Word_. Characters that respond to the thought waves of the reader, releasing more wisdom and information than what was actually _written_ there.

_Great were my people in the ancient days, great beyond the conception of the little people now around me; knowing the wisdom of old, seeking far within the heart of infinity knowledge that belonged to Earth's youth._

The walk across the desert started off at Giza, following a westward direction only Alexander could sense, even without the help of his father. He would have gone alone, but while Aegus was in the village when he stated that part of the plan – getting some supplies for his own so-called coming of age journey – Roxana and Lothar teamed up against him when he said he'd go alone on his voyage. Alexander dodged the prospect of having to persuade Lothar not to come with him, since the man had agreed to go with Aegus instead, months earlier. Initially honored, the man had _not_ been amused when he realized the trick, but he wasn't about to go back on his word. He and Alexander's wife did manage to nag him into letting Tak'Ne tag along though.

Well, Alexander mused wryly, going by what lay beyond the dune they were currently climbing, Tak'Ne was going to experience something that would make his little run-in with The Kurgan seem like an irrelevant part of his immortal life. The man said he felt like he needed to come along due to his stake in the history of that part of the world. The former king couldn't really begrudge him that, but the last leg of the journey would be Alexander's alone. He just wondered what he could possibly provide his companion with to pass the time in his absence, however long it would take.

His mind's eye looked ahead then, passing through the dune in front of them and seeing beyond, both in and out of the Astral plane. Alexander hummed. "Ask and ye shall receive."

"What?" Tak'Ne asked from just a couple paces behind. For someone who was putting considerable concentration into staying upright while his slide dug a trench in the sand, his words flowed well. "What do you see?"

Alexander spared him a glance as he continued on unabated. Of their kind, the man was probably the one who led the most successful pre-immortal life, at least as far as survival went. Despite not having been any stronger of mind and body than most others of their kind, his hair was grey-white, showing that he lived a long and full life even before he met his first death. Not that much of that was visible under the hood of the thick grey woolen cloak he wore, save for his short mustache and beard. The Quickening may heal fatigue as easily as anything else, but the heat was still beyond uncomfortable for anyone unable to control their bodies the way Alexander could.

Seemed like the time was coming to test the mettle of his mind and soul though. "We're about to have company," he finally answered the much older man. "Just over this dune."

Tak'Ne brought a hand up to slightly loosen the lace holding his cloak in place while his right settled on the hilt of his sword.

"Relax," Alexander told him. "Not that kind of company." Good thing too. As illogical as it sounded, the former king thought it was a real shame that Tak'Ne had to actually use that sword. The old Xander Harris would never have even thought of the possibility that he'd be within arm's reach of an authentic Masamune Katana, and one with an ivory handle no less. The legendary swordsmith definitely knew his wedding gifts.

Alexander's lips twitched into a half grin. Oh, how he'd have liked to rib the white-haired man about that. A lesser, unmarried person might even have felt envious of Tak'Ne's ability to actually score a real life fairytale of true love between himself and Masamune's daughter. Granted, they were different times, even in Japan, so marriages between (very) old men and young maidens were common, but he and Shakiko really did love each other. No arranged marriage for them.

The silver-tongued devil.

Shakiko's rather recent death of old age still affected the man, however, so Alexander was going to exercise tact for at least another year.

Giles would have been proud.

It took about fifteen minutes to climb to the top of the dune – it was a big one – and the sight beyond was of a huge, amorphous, very out of place olive-drab rock. It looked like a miniature mountain had been dumped at the spot between the following dune chain and the next. Alexander came to a halt and Tak'Ne came to stand at his left, scrutinizing the odd landmark ahead and looking for signs of raiders setting up an ambush. Curiously, there was no comment on his part about how odd it was that there had been no sign of the cliff when climbing over the preceding dunes, one of which was taller than the one they were on. A brief read provided the explanation: Tak'Ne had attributed it to a mirage.

"No one and nothing in sight," Alexander's grizzled companion said lowly with a touch of surprise.

As if on cue, the rock gave a grunt.

Alexander had expected this but Tak'Ne gave a start despite the forewarning. Sand was pushed away from the base of the cliff as the whole thing _moved_, cracks showing and dislodging sand mounds as the bottom part split into what looked suspiciously like limbs. Tak'Ne couldn't keep his mouth totally closed as he watched the miniature mountain in front of them push itself to stand on all fours and turn its dual-horned head in their direction. The air flickered all around it from the heat, light refracting off the creature and the sand floating around it like a cloud. It made the gigantic apparition seem even larger than it really was, with the hunch of its spine and the horns on its snout and forehead seemingly reaching all the way into the sky.

Tak'Ne's hand dropped limply off his sword hilt. "Holy heavens…" He breathed, unblinking stare riveted on the greenish brown colored giant rhino.

Alexander would have reacted the same way if his mind weren't so completely arrested by the flood of history that filled his mind as he laid physical and metaphysical eyes on the being ahead of them. Being that he could clearly see on more levels than one.

Being that saw him as just a nameless, insignificant man that it may as well not have seen _him_ at all.

Instead, its eyes passed him over as though he wasn't even there and settled squarely on his companion. Tak'Ne's flash of nervous tension assaulted whatever attention Alexander still had on his surroundings and his mind emerged from the influx of history just in time to read what the being was about to do.

He was not fast enough to prevent the rumbling voice from speaking before he could. "Juan Sánchez Villa-Lobos Ramírez."

Tak'Ne cried out in pain and fell to both knees, hands shooting up to cradle his forehead as his past life spilled into his conscious mind. The memories locked in his Quickening erupted through his thoughts with all the grace of a battering ram. His hood was thrown back despite the way he bent forward, hands pressing against his eyes and fingers scratching at his scalp. He tried to choke back a second scream but failed to stop it.

Alexander dropped the concealing veil on his soul for the very first time, stepped in front of the creature's unblinking eyes and met its stare with the most searing glare he'd ever sent out. "That was NOT your call!" His voice carried over the intervening distance and further, making the being's head jerk in surprise. "Assault one of mine by use of their True Name again and I will do the same to you, ALKEBU-LAN."The Spirit of Africa reared back, stomping the ground where it stood as it turned to face him fully. Alexander may not have authority on the level of gods or higher, but the same couldn't be said for his father. "I would have expected this from one of the Olympian usurpers, not one of Gaea's true children!"

The whole world seemed to shudder as one true name was called right after the other. Alexander wasn't sure if Gaea was displeased with him and he didn't have time to ponder it. Behind him, Tak'Ne collapsed face-first into the sand as his physical mind faltered and died due to the surge of information, two thousand years' worth of memory having literally bashed into his head all at once. The man could have rolled down the dune side but instead came to a halt against the back of Alexander's feet.

The former king looked down for a long moment, then turned his frown back upon the personification of the land. The wonder inspired by the once-in-a-lifetime sight had well and truly been pushed aside. It had been Tak'Ne's decision not to dig up his past life, since the many centuries he'd lived through in this one had been complicated enough. There was no point in digging up those horrors, not yet, especially since the mastery over the Vril could be regained otherwise. The nightmares would, in fact, be detrimental to that goal. Alexander himself had refrained from revealing anything about Tak'Ne's personal life pre-cataclysm, the same as he'd done for all others who made the same choice, even though he knew all of the salient points through psychometry and from his own memories absorbed from the deaths of others. And now, a few short words had defeated the purpose of all that.

So much for free will.

"I could not see you." The giant rhino rumbled, unmoving. Sand clouds floated around and behind it like a veil. "Even now I know you not."

"You thought he was the seeker and me his inconsequential companion." Now that he could focus, he could read the truth and leave the abundant history alone. "You knew my companion and decided he should know himself the same way you knew him." His voice was as hard as he could make it. "Nevermind that the whole point of this journey would have been for him to find the fortitude needed to do just that without going mad!" And now this staredown was keeping him from trying to psychically help Tak'Ne through this unexpected clusterfubar.

He'd never felt so conflicted in his entire existence. On the one hand, Africa had more authority than anyone or anything when it came to the people and things walking its lands. Well, except Gaea and whoever ranked higher anyway. On the other hand, what had just happened was an act of unnecessary cruelty that didn't give the divine directives of free will and "do unto others" even a passing glance.

A higher being had just committed manslaughter upon a person passing by in what had to be the most extreme case of bullying ever.

What a screwed up world.

Whether because it reached the same conclusion or due to some other reason, the Spirit of Africa steadily backed away until its image faded into the veil of hovering sand behind. Soon it cloaked its entire body and, not long after, the gigantic rhinoceros disappeared completely, leaving only a sand bank that was steadily dissipating like fog.

Alexander wrapped his father's shroud around his spirit again and shook his head. Not just because of the mess itself but also the inconclusive end to that confrontation. One option was to consider the departure a silent acknowledgment of his point. The other option was to take into account that eerily floating fog-like sand cloud was going to cool the ground and air below it, making mirages more likely. It wouldn't work on him of course, but by all accounts it sounded like the being didn't know that and couldn't see anything relevant even when staring at him face-to-face.

He sighed and knelt next to Tak'Ne, though he should probably call him Ramirez now. Laying his palm on his head he looked beyond skin and bone to the nerves beneath and just had to grimace at the utter mess of neurons and chaotically firing synapses in spite of the body's status as dead. To think that a being that was all-seeing regarding everything and everyone walking its surface would do… this in full awareness of its actions. It was just so disappointing.

Numinous spirits should know better than to commit acts like this, shouldn't they?

One thing was certain: no way was he going to call them _genius_ loci after this, no matter what philosophers and mystics decided in the centuries to come.

"Well, I guess this is our stop for today." Scooping the man up, Alexander started down the sand hill while his outer mind weaved the Vril into a large wave of fire that dove through the air and struck the ground near the base of the dune. Fire spread across the ground in a circle that became a dish, and soon the sand was melting into glass which grew and stretched into the shape of a building as he willed it, eventually taking a dome shape above the ground with one entrance to the south, away from the worst of the winds.

It looked like the bigger and see-through cousin of the igloo, but it would do until he helped Ramirez through his ordeal.

"-. .-"

Ramirez revived a whole day later and he was confused, to say the least. The memories of his life as Tak'Ne had well and truly been scrambled, leaving him in a bad way. He panicked almost as soon as he woke up to a stranger sitting over him inside a bizarre glass building and reacted violently, owing to the motherload of all post-traumatic stress disorders in the history of the Earth. It was a good thing Alexander had hidden the man's sword. To make matters worse, the chaos of "foreign" memories kept intruding on his "real" ones of the Hyperborea – Ogdru-Hem war. Add to that the "recent" memories of a mass hallucination he'd been victim of at the "hands" of the Old One Sephrilian and Alexander almost failed to reason with him. In the end, only the fact that Alexander removed the concealment on his Quickening got through to the man.

A serious irony, that.

It took hours to convince Ramirez there was no danger and the rest of the day to get him to consider that the war really might be long over and done with. The "foreign" memory flashes helped for once, especially those of the glowing-eyed alien overlords. No Old One was going to imagine humanoids as the top of the food chain even in a mass hallucination used to play with the minds of its victims. It was probably the only positive consequence of the Goa'uld occupation, Alexander thought morosely. It wasn't until after a couple more days of walking through the sandy wastes of Sahara that Alexander felt confident enough in Ramirez' approachability and crumbling aloofness to offer a "fix."

Much of that time had been spent by the former king internally beating himself up over not having done it in the beginning, before the revival. He didn't technically need permission even now, knowing the man would thank him even if he knocked him out, but after berating a numinous spirit for ignoring Tak'Ne's right to choose he wasn't going to go and do the same thing, even though the wait only inflicted mental suffering on his travel companion.

In the safety of another glass building, he had Ramirez lie down, laid his hands on his forehead and chest and reached out not with a tendril of Vril but his whole spirit.

_I'll walk you through it, _the third mind whispered.

It was the first time that his father showed him how to accomplish psychic and spiritual healing of that scale instead of doing it himself. First Alexander wiped away every memory, which was the easy part. Second came the past life recollections, which weren't that much more difficult to retrieve. They were always in the spirit and restoring them was just a matter of commanding the self to reflect the previous experiences, physically and otherwise. When that was done, he linked his psychometric readings to Tak'Ne's own life thread and practically made him relive his entire life since his re-embodiment, each moment of the Dream feeling as real as the original thing.

It totally ignored any notion of privacy and it took an entire week for the shared trance to do its job – Tak'Ne had lived a long time – but at the end of it the Immortal was himself again. A physically and mentally drained man, but himself nonetheless.

"Sleep well," Alexander murmured once he finally settled back into his body and opened his eyes. Ramirez looked tired and sallow, but for once his sleep was peaceful, in no small part due to Alexander's own active influence in the Astral Plane. Which begged the question of what kind of trainer Ramirez had way back when if he never learned to control his experiences during sleep. Just because he was one of the rare ones who managed to learn to use the Vril without that inner control didn't mean it was something to be skipped! Whenever the man's teacher decided to recover his past life memories, Alexander was going to have some serious words with him. He already knew who it was.

Still. A matter for another time.

Alexander sat back on his heels and sighed. His mind expanded beyond the shelter's walls, blanketing the area for miles around as had become the norm. "Seems I might have a recurring _guest_ to face off with." Silently lifting to his feet, he stepped out into the night and looked up to meet the eyes of the giant rhino standing a few hundred yards away. The spirit had never really gone away, instead following them from just at the edge of the horizon. At least as much as a continent's soul could ever be said to follow anyone walking on its ground.

He supposed he shouldn't be the one to judge. Africa was a harsh land, something that naturally reflected in the way its superego manifested and acted. The life from jungles and savannahs mixed with the hot currents of the lifeless dune fields, which in turn blended with the thought waves of all the animals and men living within its bounds. Africa may have started out as the Mother of Humanity – Sahara was where the Garden of Eden had once been after all – but after the calamity of the seven-headed dragon that Makoma only barely averted, the enduring, _hard_ side had become prevalent.

In a way, the Spirit of Africa was a miraculous thing, as it retained its sense of self in spite of everything that had been done to it. For all that, however, it wasn't human and couldn't be expected to think or feel like one. It was a rough, aloof existence, and the only way to be heard and acknowledged by it was to be the same. "Have you learned enough?"

The colossal rhino briefly looked at the glass dome, but met his gaze again soon after, not answering. Alexander didn't expect it to, though he did expect it to back away and fade into the sand winds like before. Africa instead settled down on the ground and let its chin rest on its thick forelegs, eyes blinking slowly as it just looked at him and the shelter he'd build from molten sand.

_It's really learning_, Alexander realized, resting his back against the grainy glass wall. _It committed identity murder and knows it. Doesn't want to do it again._ After a moment's consideration, the young immortal decided to drop his spiritual concealment for the second time and reached out with his mind and soul towards the personification of the land. He stopped short of actually making overt contact and waited.

Africa stared at him on several different levels for a time, but when it reciprocated there was no hesitance in the contact.

It was an indescribable feeling, to share minds and understanding with such a creature, and compared to the information he provided, his own experience was surreal. While what he showed of himself was selective, Africa's reciprocation was everything but. Africa just was. He got to see and live the history of the land, and the perspective was so unlike that of a human that his breath stalled. Everything that had ever happened in Africa since the land's spirit came into existence became Alexander's experience, but none of the conceptual relations between places, people and events were there. It was like he'd just seen every TV series in the world but instead of seeing the episodes in order he'd been shown the first scene of one series followed by the first scene of the second series and the first scene of the third and so on and on and on, thousands upon thousands of times. Then the second scenes, then the third and fourth and the next, from a woman giving birth to a leaf of grass blowing in the wind, and from an alien's glowing eyes to a yellow sand grain carried on the back of an ant. Even if he couldn't make heads or tails of most of it, everything was there.

Everything but him, save for two instances. The confrontation of days prior and the one of now.

Alexander withdrew from the blending and wrapped his father's shroud around himself again, opening physical eyes to behold the creature in front of him, still and silent even after that moment that had lasted most of the night. Africa knew of him now, and through him so did Gaea, but that was okay. They didn't know _him_, which was how he preferred it. Twice now had Gaea failed to prevent unseemly elements from taking root in the various pantheons around the world so he didn't trust her with himself in any measure, the same way he stayed clear of the so-called gods themselves, even when walking through the Dream of the World.

Whether or not that state of affairs was going to endure would depend on the outcome of the quest he was on. Quest that was going to be indefinitely postponed until he helped Ramirez get a full account of himself, however long it took. It wasn't like he was in a hurry.

"You do not need to reach your destination," the rhino slowly said. It made a passage from the second tablet flash through the forefront of the Immortal's mind.

_He who by progress has grown from the darkness, lifted himself from the night into light, free is he made of the Halls of Amenti, free of the Flower of Light and of Life._

Alexander crossed his arms and pondered the prompt. He was already beyond death, and whatever enlightenment waited for man would be more surely and easily attained with his father's help than by the grace of anything in the world. So when he thought of what the ultimate goal of that quest was meant to be he could answer the implied question quite plainly. "Not for what it was originally built for, no."

Any further discussion had to be put on hold because Ramirez started to come out of his deep sleep. Alexander glanced at the red sheen that was painting the black night in the east and stepped back into the glass dome just as the grizzled man's eyes fluttered open. The younger Immortal met them briefly but didn't stop in his walk to his side pack. He dug out some dried beef and with just a bit of his focus multiplied it. He did the same to a piece of flatbread and handed Ramirez his breakfast. It had been strange and (the way people stared at him when he did it) miraculous to see it happen in the beginning, but the older man who was now sitting up was used to it by that point.

As Ramirez quietly ate, Alexander sat down cross-legged and pulled out two wooden goblets and set them on the ground in front of him. Then he brought his palms together and closed his eyes, looking inward and skyward with his inner eye until he found what he wanted to conjure into the world. The divine fire flowed and took substance, flecks of golden-white hoarfrost falling from the air in front of him like snow. They filled the glasses to near brim with a drink that gods called nectar and prophets called manna.

One he kept for himself and the other he held out to his companion who was looking at him stock-still. "Not quite on the same level as Moses," Alexander quipped. "And not the type that can be baked into cakes but it will do for this situation."

A startled laugh escaped Ramirez and the man hesitantly accepted the goblet. It was the first time he saw that happen and he looked like he wanted to say something but he was just as stuck on the right words as he'd been since waking up. Alexander didn't blame him so he removed the issue by drinking from his cup, which prompted Tak'Ne to do the same. The leftover tension in the former king left him when he saw the divine essence purify Ramirez' immaterial self. The chemical imbalances in his body would restore themselves soon and allow the Immortal to think and, more importantly, feel clearly again.

Good. Teaching him the mental arts was going to be difficult and time-intensive enough even without those pitfalls. "How do you feel?"

Tak'Ne considered the question and looked at his now empty cup. "… Young." He gave the young king a wry look. "In more ways than I'd like." He sobered and turned serious. "You really did have a good reason for wanting to go at this without tag-alongs, didn't you?"

"I wasn't being full of myself when I said it was best for me to go at it alone you mean." Alexander's lips twitched at the contrite look of his traveling companion. "Roxana and Lothar mean well, but there's a big difference between what I share with them and what they manage to perceive and understand from what I share with them. Surprisingly enough, my son is a lot better at accepting that in many things I really do know better than they do." No teenager rebellion there, interestingly enough.

There was silence for a while, then… "You would have reached your destination by now if I hadn't come along."

"Probably." He made it a point not to lie after all. "It's fine, though. At least we found out some issues in need of addressing. Besides, I wasn't going to be in any real rush for another two hundred years or so." Or three, since that was about how long he still had until the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, but Ramirez was giving him a weird enough look even without mentioning that.

"… That giant rhino is out there again, isn't it?"

Bless the poor man, he felt awkward enough to blatantly change the subject. "She," he decided to make a conscious effort to refer to her as a person, "is the Spirit of Africa."

The reaction that got out of the grey-haired man made sure they wouldn't be starting the self-mastery lessons for quite a few hours.

"-. .-"

In the end, it took nearly a year for Ramirez to gain full control over his dreams and the workings of his physical and non-physical self. Even with the principles of kendo and Tai-Chi he picked up in Japan he had his work cut out for him, since Alexander refused to move on from their spot in the middle of nowhere until he'd dealt with every single issue his subconscious latched onto, controlled dreamscape or no. It felt odd to Alexander to realize that he'd become a mystical psychiatrist of all things. Then again, he supposed that being a therapist was better than a lot of other professions.

Many a desert storm had been weathered in that impenetrable glass dome and they'd been buried under tons of sand repeatedly. It was an interesting side-project to observe how fluid the desert landscape actually was, when they weren't eating, sleeping, training or traveling through the astral reflection of the land.

All the while, the Spirit of Africa was nearby in some form or another, watching and waiting. Or just… being. Ramirez rarely sensed it, even near the end of that unscheduled pause in their journey. Journey which hadn't been even half as long as the pause itself. Alexander was always aware of watchers, however, no matter who or what they were. Fortunately, other than the numinous spirit of that particular continent no one and nothing came snooping around in the higher planes. Or the lower ones. Well, not counting Gaea's will which always pervaded the earth and touched everything living on it.

It was mid-through the month of September when they were finally ready to go on their way. Alexander was mentally prepared for another year's worth of travel, just to increase the odds that any surprise would be a positive one. He doubted the location of his ultimate destination mattered as much as the show of determination represented by the journey to get there. He wasn't certain the end of the journey even had a fixed location in space. Either way, Sahara was a big place, larger than the entirety of Europe by a fair bit, so he didn't expect to find what he wanted quickly, especially with Africa and Gaea thrown into the mix. He _thought_ that all things related to the Children of Light superseded or at least matched Gaea's authority but he couldn't be certain and his father wasn't sure either.

It was mind-reeling, then, to feel the world shift around them. There was no visible evidence – indeed, Ramirez didn't notice a thing while he strapped his equipment on – but one moment they were buried deep in the sand and the next they were… still buried in the sand but at least one thousand miles westward of their previous location.

Alexander swayed and had to lean with both hands against the glass wall of their desert cell.

"What the-!" Ramirez was at his side in an instant, one hand on his arm. "I take it something's happened?"

Ladies and gentlemen, captain obvious.

The older Immortal shifted his sight to the higher ranges of the electromagnetic spectrum but couldn't see what Alexander did, or as far, especially through the glass and sand barrier that went on for dozens of meters in all directions.

"I'm okay… It was just disorienting." The former king straightened and bent down to pick up and pull his white suede coat over his similarly-colored leather pants and soft wool shirt. "We've moved."

"What?" the other man hissed.

Further conversation was delayed in favor of turning and staring through the translucent walls at the sand outside. It was shifting and flowing, sinking away. Sunlight not seen in over a week begun to filter from above through the topmost gap in the mound. Soon it was strong enough to make the conjured flame in the middle of the domed ceiling unnecessary, so Alexander dismissed it.

Not long after, the sand fell away from the mouth of the entrance and the former king wasted no time in leaving the confines of the small home. Sure, it had grown to include two rooms and separate cooking and sanitary quarters but they had both had more than enough of it over the past twelve months.

"Remarkable…" Ramirez whispered as he came out behind him.

Alexander had to agree, it was like watching rivers flow in spirals all around them, except they were made of sand and drifting away in all directions while reaching ever upwards, forming new dunes or joining those already there as the one they'd been under steadily diminished until there was nothing of it left. It was a spectacular view that went as far as the human eye could see, even with the sand banks floating all around them in the air, obscuring the sky and bending the sunrays.

The cloud-like grains wafted radially away from a point roughly a mile from their position, allowing their aloof and silent watcher to walk around them on muffled footsteps, never facing them but never looking completely away from them either. Such were the benefits of having eyes mounted sideways, Alexander thought with a small grin. But his mind was clear and his reach was as wide as ever, so the sight of the great being did not distract him from the great construct located several hundred feet behind them.

Drawn by the thought waves of a soul long since come and gone, he turned around and faced the other edge of the uncannily calm sandstorm in whose eye they stood. "It seems that we've just made up for the one-year delay."

As if on cue, the winds that kept the sand bank flying like a hurricane around them begun to slow down. Soon they were too weak to keep the grains afloat, especially at the height of a small mountain, and as the desert calmed down, the sight beyond the dying storm started to become clear and he finally had a good view of what was undeniably the true legacy of Atlantis."Well, the second city to be called Atlantis anyway…"

His murmur snapped Ramirez out of his unintended staredown with the giant rhino. "Sorry, I wasn't paying a… ttention…" The older man's words tapered out as an all too understandable speechlessness settled over him. The dispersal of the glass shelter that had been their home for a year went almost completely unnoticed.

Ahead of them, the Great Golden Pyramid of Ascending Soul Force stood tall, gleaming in the sun. Not a single grain of sand touched it or seemed to have come into contact with it in the many thousands of years since it was built, and the light upon it seemed more like it came from within instead of the sky above. There was some grim irony in the imagery, but Alexander knew that the Goa'uld's decision to use pyramids as their primary symbol of power had been a coincidence. After all, the pyramid was one of the most basic but also most important shapes in geometry so there was no way the Goa'uld would have just passed it over during their scientific development as a civilization, however skewed. If anything, the sight before him showed that ultimately the aliens had completely failed to touch upon the True Mysteries.

Finally, he'd _found him_.

If not for everything he'd seen and learned, the young king would have been overcome by reverence, not just from the majesty of the physical work but the resonance of the Great Pyramid throughout the planes, how they responded to each syllable of the Ancient Tongue. The pillar of golden light shone divinely from the tip of the pyramid, bright and glorious to his second sight. "I, Thoth, the Atlantean, master of mysteries, keeper of records, mighty king, magician, living from generation to generation, being about to pass into the halls of Amenti, set down for the guidance of those that are to come after, these records of the mighty wisdom of Great Atlantis." Word for word Alexander quoted from the emerald tablets he carried in his satchel. "Long time dwelt I in the land of Khem, doing great works by the wisdom within me. Upward grew into the light of knowledge the children of Khem, watered by the rains of my wisdom."

Deciding he'd spent enough time on tangents, Alexander set off on a calm stride towards the ultimate destination of his journey, destination that was finally in sight. Behind him, Ramirez warily followed at a small distance, and the Spirit of the Land slowly found her own way through the adjacent dunes. Both things the young king afforded only the smallest amount of attention. "Blasted I then a path to Amenti so that I might retain my powers, living from age to age a Sun of Atlantis, keeping the wisdom, preserving the records."

"I actually understand you now that I remember…" Ramirez said lowly from where he followed behind him. "It's in our language. Those tablets are written in our language. You're saying that Thoth might still be _alive _in there?" His eyes scanned the massive structure ahead and passed over the archway without seeing it. "That would mean he survived the war and everything that came after…"

There were some conflicting emotions there, Alexander noticed. There had been no small amount of resentment aimed at Thoth during the Ogdru-Hem war, especially in the later days when only operational security prevented the whole world from knowing that Thoth was alive in Atlantis. A city in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, built on the island of Undal where Thoth had spent his early years learning the mysteries from his father Thotme, keeper of the Great Temple. Atlantis had been built fairly late into the war, after the other cities had been overcome. The second to bear that name since the old ancestors of the Hyperboreans, the Alterans, took the original city by that name and flew it into deep space.

One of many things Alexander wanted information on.

Ramirez had died half-way through the conflict but apparently it had been late enough for some of the facts of the war's beginning and Thoth's perceived failures to become entrenched. "Whether Thoth is still around is part of what I'm here to discover," Alexander told him. "I'm pretty sure he was the main mind behind the final solution, though not the main power given what the tablets say." At Tak'Ne's questioning sound, the younger immortal's thoughts went to the tablets again. _"_Down through the ages I lived, seeing those around me taste of the cup of death and return again in the light of life. Gradually from the Kingdoms of Atlantis passed waves of consciousness that had been one with me, only to be replaced by spawn of a lower star_."_ He turned his head to meet Ramirez' ponderous gaze. "The first part could refer to Immortals or reincarnation, or both, and the second likely describes how the thought waves of the Old Ones gradually but inevitably overcame our people's, even in the heart of the last city located the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That, or they failed even without that influence hammering at their minds."

It was a sobering thought, even though it was something they both already suspected, in a manner of speaking. "So what exactly happened then?"

"I wasn't there and the tablets are both clear and vague on the events, but…" He tried to find the words but decided he needed a context, so the quotes again flowed from his tongue like sweet water. "In obedience to the law, the word of the Master grew into flower. Downward into the darkness turned the thoughts of the Atlanteans, until at last in this wrath arose from his Agwanti the Dweller, speaking The Word, calling the power."

"Agwanti!" Ramirez hissed. "That's the ultimate state of communion between Anum and the Soul of the World… for that state to be disturbed, a threat would have to…"

"Threaten and/or harm the Soul of the World directly." The Dragon and his spawn had harmed Gaea badly. It made the king wonder if her behavior, if the word even applied, in the time since the second rise of humankind could be explained by that.

"But the way you say it… it makes it sound like the problem followed _after_ the final solution was implemented."

"It was after my death so I don't know exactly what the final solution ended up being. And the Emerald Tablets suggest that Atlantis sunk thousands of years ago, not millions. Somehow, the society survived through the Ice Age and half the Stone Age but wound up failing in every meaningful way as soon as humankind started to spread throughout the world again. The final straw was in conjunction with the end of the previous age, possibly indifference to the plight of the rest of the world and possibly something worse." Seeing Ramirez' confusion at his shifting train of thought, he explained. "There must have been a reason why a miracle child had to be born back in the Neolithic Stone Age and take care of the latest incarnation of the Ogdru-Jahad. As far as I've been able to discover, Makoma had only himself to rely on, an Iron Hammer, four giants he befriended by beating them to a pulp, and a cannibalistic power-transference ritual he was tricked into just before he faced the Beast. No higher learning, no Hyperborean magic-science, no mention of even fleeting guidance from a Priest of the Flame. Either Atlantis fell before the issue came up or they stood by and did nothing. Or worse, contributed to the Ogdru-Jahad's entrance into the world somehow."

The thought visibly chilled the grizzled man. It wouldn't have been the first time the Golden People screwed things up. Maybe they'd fallen in with Hecate somehow. Again.

"Whatever it was that caused Atlantis' fall from grace, Anum obviously considered it unacceptable." Alexander said with finality. He had the suspicion that the final solution wasn't supposed to be final for the remnants of the human race, however regressed and tribal they'd ended up by the end. Everything he'd learned in either life suggested that those works of magic-science that were being devised could have been more selective in directing the Eternal Fire. Could have directed the Vril accumulated in the sky towards destroying the Old Ones and everything twisted by them while leaving true _life_ alone. If the Atlanteans decided that they were better off if everything and everyone in the world other than them died off…

"Pride comes before the fall," Ramirez said mostly to himself, echoing Alexander's realization.

"They should have known better. The True Mysteries are largely lost now, but they weren't _then_." Alexander sighed and grimly resumed his recitation. "Deep in Earth's heart, the sons of Amenti heard, and hearing, directed the changing of the flower of fire that burns eternally, changing and shifting, using the LOGOS, until that great fire changed its direction. Over the world then broke the great waters, drowning and sinking, changing Earth's balance until only the Temple of Light was left standing on the great mountain on Undal still rising out of the water." Clearly, the world had been torn and sick enough that the Great Flood had been not just useful but necessary. It didn't wipe out all land-based life, especially mountain tribes of men, but whatever civilizations and settlements still existed were just worm-infested houses of horrors by the time Makoma and the Dragon finally killed each other. The African king himself came across one of many such cities during his travels, where the people were trapped even in death, constantly devoured by plagues and insects with no hope of release. For all that it praised Noah and damned Sodom and Gomorrah, the Bible didn't even know half of it. "Some there were who were living, saved from the rush of the fountains. Called to me then the Master, saying: Gather you together my people. Take them by the arts you have learned of far across the waters, until you reach the land of the hairy barbarians, dwelling in caves of the desert. Follow there the plan that you know of."

"… Something about this history doesn't feel right," Ramirez floundered. "Not inaccurate, it just… it's suspicious. I'd call it staged but that wouldn't be totally accurate. I suppose a close enough term would be… unjustifiably bleak?"

"There were some promising segments though. Or at least there was one," Alexander amended. "Thoth ruled over Khem, old Egypt, for at least a thousand years before sending the other Priests to spread the light of Civilization elsewhere. It explains why Khem advanced so quickly and outpaced much older cultures like Sumer, and why those cultures then matched the pace of Khem even without actual contact between the peoples. The cultures advanced in different directions but they advanced, instead of dragging themselves forward like they'd been doing for the past half a million years."

"Not that it did much good," Ramirez said with some bitterness. "The damned space worms came along and ruined things just as the civilizations were getting their feet under them."

"Well, they're gone now." Alexander looked sideways at his companion and wrapped an arm around him. "It occurred to me that few people actually did this in the wake of the bastard Pantheons that swooped in to steal the credit, so let me say it: thank you for overthrowing them and saving the world." The man's bitter scowl shifted into a bittersweet smile. That and the memories Alexander reflexively retrieved of the man's life caused whatever was left of Alexander's mood to sour. "Sweet heavens, no one ever actually thanked you, did they? Even the people you led against the snakes fell for lies of the usurper Pantheons." Alexander couldn't help the disbelief in his tone. How had his head not made the connection? He'd been working with the man for a year non-stop. "You overthrew the head elements of a tyrannical galactic empire and nobody even _knows_."

The bitterness of before returned and came out in a laugh. "Most of the various peoples never actually found out that the problem extended beyond their own flimsy borders. I can tell you that the worms had a lot of laughs at their expense over that." Tak'ne reached up to lay his hand over the one Alexander had on his shoulder. "With the gods' ability to affect the world gradually growing over the course of the last two generations under Goa'uld rule, everyone came to think the success of the various rebellions were owed fully to them. Never mind that we had to use magic and stolen technology to manipulate and coordinate things so that the final push happened all at once worldwide. By then many of us Immortals were doing it for ourselves at least as much as for everyone else. Though there were a few like Enmerkar who managed to spit in the gods' faces. Gilgamesh was one of ours too and manipulated the people of Sumer into thinking _he_ was divine, giving credit where it was due..." Ramirez gave the young king a shrewd look then. "Kind of like someone else we all know."

"I never claimed to be a son of Zeus," Alexander deadpanned, not pulling away as they walked on. "If people want to think I am, it's their right under the law of free will."

"Of course." Tak'Ne nodded drolly, but his good mood faded into a wan shadow of itself. "Thank you for the consideration all the same."

With a smile equally doleful, Alexander pat the other man on the shoulder and withdrew his arm. They were finally within a hundred paces of the west entrance to the pyramid anyway.

The two beheld the architectural miracle for a time. Ramirez looked for cracks or imperfections in the gold coating but found none, while Alexander delved into the history of the edifice, all the way to the beginning when Thoth imposed his will on reality and shaped it from the surrounding sands. Making those Emerald Tablets of his was probably a child's trick to him in comparison.

"Raised I high over the entrance a doorway, a gateway leading down to Amenti," Alexander said from memory. "Few there would be with courage to dare it, few pass the portal to dark Amenti. Raised over the passage, I, a mighty pyramid, using the power that overcomes Earth force." Which sounded a lot like he'd used only telekinesis to not just move earth and stone but to manipulate molecules and atomic composition, something Alexander had only considered in theory.

"I suppose this is it…" Ramirez eventually said quietly. "How do we get in?"

"I guess we'll take the front door," Alexander shrugged.

"Ah, it's one of those hidden passages then," Ramirez begun to nod but stopped at the brief confusion that the other man aimed at him.

"I meant that archway," he said, gesturing at the vaulted archway right ahead, one of four facing the cardinal points and located at the middle of each edge on the bottom level. A search with his higher sight revealed the problem. "You can't see it."

Ramirez blinked, shifted his eyesight through all the levels he could view and shook his head.

Alexander snorted. "Figures. It's one of those selective worthiness things that only sets people apart in terms of how much the one you're looking for likes you compared to your friends." He crossed his arms and glared at the offending entrance waiting innocently ahead of them. Unless he was mistaken it was made of unchanging platinum as molecularly fixed as the tablets and the rest of the pyramid itself.

"I suppose this is the world's latest way of saying we should have just let you come alone like you wanted to in the first place."

"Well, too bad." With a frown, Alexander mentally reached forward, found the weave of high magic that rendered the entrance indistinguishable from the rest of the outer wall and pulled it apart at the seams. The flare of pleased surprise at his side indicated he was successful. "It was meant to only reveal the entrance to those who knew exactly what they were going to find inside, which you didn't."

"And you do."

"Irem of a Thousand Pillars." That said he quickly walked forward until he was within arm's reach of the gold-covered angled wall. It was indescribably smooth to the touch.

"Now… now wait just a damned minute!" Ramirez shouted, hurrying after him. "Irem's a legend! And even if it's real, isn't it supposed to be in Arabia?"

"Rub al-Khali to be specific," Alexander answered absently. "The Arabian Desert. The Empty Quarter. In truth that's just one of four entrances. The others are in Antarctica, here and…" the surprise made his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. "El Dorado of all places."

"El Dorado?"

"Also known as Manoa, a golden city built by the Muisca people in South America, beyond the ocean to the west." That information… honestly surprised Alexander, not just in itself but the fact he managed to uncover it at all. He wondered if what he did even qualified as psychometry anymore. "Apparently the city was built by a king known as the Golden One."

The two immortals exchanged a glance full of meaning. The Golden People of Hyperborea literally had golden skin, occasionally inscribed with alabaster or blue symbols. Whoever established the Golden City was likely a Priest of the Flame or a reincarnated immortal who was doing his job right. It made Alexander wonder what would happen that would relegate the place and the king himself to an unproven myth by the twentieth century.

Alexander rewove the concealment enchantment on the entrance and was satisfied to see that Ramirez still saw it now that the last piece of the puzzle called "destination" had finally been added in his mind. "Well, I believe the spider said it best."

"I suppose I'm the fly?" Tak'Ne muttered but nonetheless followed.

Behind them, the Spirit of Africa settled on its haunches and forelegs and laid its chin on its front joints. Sand flowed flowed forth from all over, leveling in front and around the Pyramid until the Great Being was covered nearly all the way up to its spine.

It would not slumber yet, but it would wait.

"-. .-"

"By the Eternal Fire…"

Alexander agreed but he managed not to vocalize his astonishment upon finally coming to the end of that dark passage. Although it was not so much dark as lit with the kind of light that normal eyesight couldn't perceive. Light that Shone in Darkness. Unlike other pyramids this one didn't have any hollow sections, save for the straight, vertical shaft at the center that focused the light of the Sun and trans-physical levels of reality into a single, focused beam of Soul Force.

_Built I the Great Pyramid, patterned after the pyramid of Earth force, burning eternally so that it, too, might remain through the ages. There in the apex set I the crystal, sending the ray into the "Time-Space," drawing the force from out of the ether, concentrating upon the gateway to Amenti._

The space they had emerged in was massive, enough that the top and sides couldn't be seen with the naked eye. Even their superior sight strained to reach the boundaries of the perfect frustum where the underground City of Pillars resided. Columns of white marble, alabaster, crystal and diamond rose from the stone floors and roads all the way to the flat top of the cavern, though it was a poor term to refer to it by.

The streets were arrayed radially, much like the Kutlesh Sun that Alexander had incorporated into his family crest, only with eighteen rays instead of sixteen. The roads were paved with colored stones in the pattern of the rainbow and all sprung from the central plaza, a perfect circle made of white stone that seemed to have been poured into that shape without ever having been cut or melted down. Side roads circled that square at regular intervals, turning what would otherwise be eighteen separate boulevards into a vast circuit of pathways. Homes and buildings of all sorts flanked the roads, each three meters apart from the other.

It was a wondrous cityscape made by a single man through the power of his authority and will, and at the same time it was a place as empty as it was magnificent.

The two Immortals just stood there for nigh an hour, simply looking. Ultimately, though, they reached the same conclusion.

"This is a sad place," Ramirez whispered, almost, eyes never wavering from the sight in front of them. "I'd be tempted to accuse the builder of hoarding his talents and craft but that wasn't the point, was it? There's not even any treasure here. Nothing material at any rate. No gold, no gems, no artefacts. Not even tomes. If I didn't know the mystical properties of gold I'd wonder why he bothered to coat the pyramid above in it." He fell quiet for a few moments, eyes studying the road ahead and the staircase leading down from the mouth of the passage they'd come through. Even that was pristinely clean, with not a speck of dust to be found. "Who would build such a place only to let it lie untouched and abandoned?"

"A man who mourns unburdened by grief," Alexander answered quietly. The farther he read into that place's history, the more that conclusion was enforced. "A man who knew his people were gone beyond any hope of rebuilding. A man who knew his people had used up their chances. This city was never meant to be lived in. It's a monument." Deciding he'd stalled enough, he set off down the stairs and spread his awareness far and wide, blanketing Irem in its entirety, instantly locating the Keys that Thoth had hidden and just as quickly confirming that he needed none of them, unlike previous pilgrims. Neither did he need to go through the Tests of Inner Revelation. "Four others preceded us here. The one before us was almost 1800 years ago now. A man whose name was… Melchizedek." That bit of information brought him to a halt in the middle of the road.

"Melchizedek," a wide-eyed Ramirez echoed dubiously. "King of Salem Melchizedek. Priest of El Elyon the God Most High Melchizedek. He who was, quote, without father, without mother, without genealogy, having neither beginning of days nor end of life, end quote, that Melchizedek."

"Yep." He stretched out the word to give himself time to internalize that revelation.

"… Okay."

"He wasn't one of us," it had to be said. That information came from his father not his readings, but he didn't bother telling Ramirez that. "What's odd is that the 'legend' of his origins makes it sound like he's an ascended who embodied or one of those Children of Light mentioned in the tablets, assuming they aren't the same thing. It makes me wonder why he even needed to come here though."

"Like _you_ needed to come here?"

"Well, you've got me there." With redoubled focus he looked even farther back in time. "The person before Melchizedek was Zarathushtra." Since there was nothing to send his mind reeling this time, he resumed their walk.

The older immortal's eyebrows climbed higher than they usually rested but he wasn't quite as surprised this time. "That actually makes sense." The Priesthood of Ahura Mazda basically spread the same tenets as the Clerics of Hyperborea.

For his part, Alexander wondered when Ahriman managed to fool the members of that faith into believing there's such a thing as an antithesis to Ahura Mazda. For Ahriman to invent and pose as the concept of Angra Mainyu and actually cause enough destruction and dissent to twist one of the true religions and turn it from dichotomic to dualistic took a quite a bit of gall.

"So who's the third? Or is that second?" Ramirez prompted.

"Oh, that was-" Alexander suddenly came to a halt that was even more abrupt than the first one. "Okay, _really?_"

"What? What's wrong?"

Blinking out of his stupor, Alexander blandly answered. "Her name was Egeria."

"So? I can't imagine you'd react this way just because she's a woman-"

"Egeria was a Goa'uld."

That shut him up nicely indeed. For all of five seconds. "WHAT?" The shout sent the first echoes that ever sounded in that place since its creation and made the grizzled immortal cringe and look furtively around, then back at him. "You're joking." A beat. "You _are_ joking, right?"

"I'm afraid not," Alexander said with superhuman calm. "… Was there ever any shred of evidence to suggest your rebellion had inside help?"

That made Tak'Ne wonder. "… I honestly have no idea."

The former king took a deep calming breath and slowly released it. "I'm almost afraid to look and see who the last one was."

"The first one you mean." Ramirez sighed too and rubbed his eyes. "We may as well find out."

Alexander had to look nearly all the way back to the time when the Pyramid was erected, but finally he had his answer. "Haraonos Emrys."

Both men took some time to wrack their minds for any hint that they'd ever heard of the name, but while Alexander did wonder if there was a relation to Merlin, Ramirez had nothing. "This is one I don't know."

"You should know about him. And so should I." The younger man slowly met Ramirez' questioning gaze. "He was one of us." His eyes unfocused as he gave that point in time further scrutiny. "And while he did come alone, at the same time he wasn't. Voices echoed unheard when he spoke and spirits walked where he walked."

Ramirez made the connection almost immediately. "Shaman." The word was spoken lowly and with a tinge of respect.

The two took a minute to wonder about the implications.

"I wonder what happened to him," Ramirez uttered eventually, rubbing his chin. "If he's still alive by some miracle he'll be the oldest of us by far."

Alexander's father was silent on the matter, which could mean one or more of several things. Including that maybe his answers were just ahead. "All this makes me wonder if I know what I'm getting into or if I'm in for more _surprises_."

The two reached an unspoken agreement to make no more small talk and traveled the rest of the way to the city center without further words. All the while, Alexander felt like he was taking his last steps in at least one sense. It made him think of how far he'd come since his days as Xander Harris, how different he acted and thought. Everything up to the nature and scope of his internal vocabulary had changed, even when taking into account the different language. Once Greek, now Lemurian, the closest anyone had ever gotten to vocalizing the Written Word, the language of thought waves. Though he supposed those were sounds in their own way. It all boiled down to vibration in the end.

The old Xander Harris would have been all over the innuendo and disregarded everything else within moments of hearing the words.

In the middle of the central plaza lay a domed building with a raised base and a double-door wide enough for ten men to stand in side by side. All of it was made of crystal that looked like it had been grown through and acquired the traits of alchemical gold. It was clear and glimmered with its own inner light and yet did not allow one to see inside. Alexander could see the light motes clearly, that they weren't just a refraction of the golden beam that streamed into the heart of the edifice through the circular gap at the top. The light actually looked like it streamed upward as much as it rained down.

Now that they were close, Alexander could see why his thought waves seemed like they stretched into eternity in that central spot near the roof. Instead of a magical light, a glowing crystal or even a miniature star, there was instead a gateway to Darkness. The Darkness of Light filled with stars that were not stars. "Raised I high over the entrance a doorway, a gateway leading down to Amenti…" The light from the crystal atop the pyramid sustained it from above and if he had his facts right...

With a flex of his will, Alexander undid the locks on the massive doors and walked through.

There it was. Thoth's sarcophagus, lying in the middle of the central dais on which the light of Soul Force shone. The stone coffin had that mighty, solid quality that all sarcophagi seemed to share, which made the Goa'uld modify their healing cubes until they had the same size and shape. Just one of many acts of propaganda they deluded themselves and everyone else with in their time. Still were deluding themselves and others beyond the stars.

One day he would figure out what to do about them.

The silence stretched for quite some time.

Ramirez' patience drained first. "Now what?" The words were voiced but somehow softer than any whisper he'd ever produced.

"He who in courage would dare the dark realms, let him be purified first by long fasting. Lie in the sarcophagus of stone in my chamber. Then reveal I to him the great mysteries. Soon shall he follow to where I shall meet him, even in the darkness of Earth shall I meet him, I, Thoth, Lord of Wisdom, meet him and hold him and dwell with him always."

The words rippled through space-time as the place they were in seemed to recognize them and who had spoken them in the early days of Khem, before the path had been blasted to the core of the Earth. "The first one is easy, since I haven't needed to eat in years. The rest, though…" Alexander scratched his chin for a few moments, then let his hand fall to his side and a cool serenity settled over him, reaching all the way to his core. "I already know the Great Mysteries." Without another glance in the direction of his companion, he strode forward and stepped into the light shining from above, stopping just at the foot of the sarcophagus but no further.

"… Should I hide somewhere?" Ramirez half-joked, internally awed at how the light played on the white figure.

"Do you know the meaning of life, Ramirez?" Alexander's fingers slid over the lid of the stone coffin as his Lemurian took on a rhythmic cant. "Why we exist? Why men are born, why they die and why they are reborn, again and again and again?" Even there at the heart of the ancient hall there was no dust to mark the passing of time. "Darkness and light are both of one nature, different only in seeming, for each arose from the source of all. Darkness is disorder. Light is Order. Darkness transmuted is light of the Light. This is our purpose in being: transmutation of darkness to light." His tone turned rueful. "Of course, I speak of Order, not the twisted interpretation of those who would impose draconic boundaries upon sentients for the sake of providing them with an illusion of control." He looked up through the opening in the roof, all the way to the Portal in space-time that waited up high to transport him to the Core of the Earth. "Those lights up there are the souls of men."

Ramirez didn't speak. He didn't feel he actually understood everything Alexander was relaying no matter how clear-cut it seemed on the surface. Or maybe he was just complicating things in his head.

The younger Immortal turned to face him with the look of someone who knew what thought had just passed through his mind. "This sarcophagus is here to make it easier for me to leave my body and journey to the center of all but…" He grinned. "Ultimately, what is the body?" With one mental push he dropped the veil concealing him from both the Light and Darkness and let his body and spirit fill to the brim with the fire and thunder always blazing in the center of his soul, waiting to be unleashed. "Mekut-El-Shab-El Hale-Sur-Ben-El-Zabrut Zin-Efrim-Quar-El. Edom-El-Ahim-Sabbert-Zur Adom."

Half-way through the chant his body was bright enough to force the older man to bring his palm up and shield his vision. By the end he had to look away to prevent his eyes from burning out, so instead of seeing the young king erupt into white light he looked in the other direction, which was the only reason he saw outside through the walls – walls that let one see out even if they prevented outsiders from looking in. Every part of Irem, from every pillar to every wall, shone, for an instant, as though it held within a sun of its own.

Then the light flared brighter than even he could make out and shot up through the gap in the ceiling, disappearing into the endless depths of the gateway above.

"-. .-"

Ramirez would have waited down there for a whole year if it came to it, but just six hours after he ascended into the Portal that led downwards (however strange that sounded), Alexander manifested in front of him as a spirit and told him that he was going to be a while. After briefly considering the option of trying to find the keys and completing the "path," the man decided against it. Maybe someday he would actually walk that path to the end, but he would do it properly from the start and only after he came to terms with everything he was and wasn't.

Which led him to his current dilemma: how was he going to get back to civilization? And which direction was civilization anyway? Assuming he even was in one of the parts of the world he knew, which was unlikely.

"Well," he muttered under his breath as he climbed the stairs leading topside. "Every journey starts with the first step."

Once he stepped through the archway he was met with the incongruous sight of a slumbering, buried-up-to-its-neck-in-the-sand giant rhino. A giant rhino that shook its head and lifted it to stare at him as soon as he was in view.

The Immortal stared.

The Spirit of Africa stared back. "Juan Sánchez Villa-Lobos Ramírez."

It felt to the man as if he'd just relived his whole life in a single flash, but this time nothing bad happened. "That's me. How do you do?"

The rhino stared at him, then blinked. The sand reaching nearly all the way up to its back shifted and folded until it resembled a footway with stairs at the farthest top-most end, stopping at the small of its neck. Tak'Ne boggled at the bizarre sight but couldn't help but take a stab at the giant force of nature that could squash or otherwise have its wicked way with him. "Don't think this leaves you off the hook!" As he waggled his finger at her, Ramirez asked himself if he'd gone insane or if he'd always been.

There wasn't an answer or even the barest hint of emotion.

Still befuddled but beyond numb to the shocks at that point, the Immortal checked to make sure he had all his possessions, up to water and food, or what was left anyway, then shrugged and climbed on the back of the gigantic creature. He never dreamed he'd get to go on a safari on the back of a rhino, let alone such a big rhino, but with how his life was going odds were good that even stranger things were going to happen to him soon.

A strange thought hit him when the creature pushed to its feet and started to lumber its way across its… well, other body: Tak'Ne had been a good name but it was about time he switched to a new moniker, and his real one was a mouthful. Ramirez sounded nice but also rather too Spaniard for that part of the world.

After some internal deliberation he settled on one of the names he'd employed during an incognito mission among the People of the Left Hand, back in the very old days. Allan was a fine name. Allan Quatermain.

Yes, it would serve him well for as long as he was on African soil, he was sure.


	8. Interlude 1-a: Methuselah's Gift

**A/N: **Apologies for how long this took. This is the first half of the first interlude, switching the limelight and advancing things while Alexander is doing his thing in the center of the world, such as it is.

* * *

**Interlude 1 – a: Methuselah's Gift**

"-. .-"

Someday he'd be able to cast his sight deep and high enough into the other planes to gaze upon the strings of causality. Then he'd look back on this moment and everything that led to it and he would see, beyond all doubt, that this was all his father's fault. He was sure of it.

"Hya!" He yelled with a snap of the reins. "Go Notos, run!" His black horse neighed and redoubled his gallop, kicking up mud as they flew across the flatlands.

"I'm not even surprised," Lothar fatalistically lamented from his left. His brown stallion ran without any extra prodding, not even jolting in fright when the horn calls of their pursuers sounded behind and around them. "You were a devil as a kid, of _course_ your adulthood would be utter hell on everyone that spent more than a day with you."

"Oh, this is _so_ not my fault!" Aegus snapped with a half-hearted glare. Ahead of them, more horns answered the calls of ones behind. "You're the one that druid started pointing at! What was that even about anyway!?"

"And here I'd thought your father taught you better than to shirk responsibility," Lothar shot back. "'I just wish we stumbled upon something more interesting than sheep herders,' isn't that what you said?" Naturally, he side-stepped the question of him and the druid.

"This _so_ doesn't qualify!" There hadn't been any wish demons or djinn involved!

"Really?" Lothar asked in sheer disbelief. "Do I have to quote your old man's last bit of advice?"

"Oh shut up!" Like he needed to be reminded of that!

All Aegus had wanted was to go on an adventu-uuh, embark on a coming of age journey. A few years traveling the world, seeing the sights, discovering new things and laughing at dumb peop-er, witnessing the shortcomings of the world in need of addressing, that's it. It was all totally straightforward.

Until his dad opened his big mouth.

_Don't get a big head, son. Never wish for anything out loud, son. If you feel like things are going well, never, ever voice that thought because you'll just call down the wrath of Murphy, son._

_Who in Tartarus is Murphy_? It had begged asking.

_The ultimate archetype of enforced karma_, his dad had told him. _You'll understand a little over two thousand years from now if you live long enough._

Aegus always had to put effort into not making faces at being told things like that. Last time he asked his father to explain weird answers like that one he got told that he'd understand when he got older. A lot older. It was a habit of grandfather's that Alexander took no small measure of pleasure in emulating. Well, no matter. Next time he saw his father, Aegus was going to give him such a piece of his mind that poking at his lack of understanding would be the last thing he'll think of. It said something that Aegus' life dropped head-first into "_anything that can go wrong will go wrong_" only after Alexander said so. It meant that due to somehow knowing things that would come to pass millennia in the future, his father had somehow precipitated the existence of the law of universal perversity.

His father had _created Murphy_.

There was no _way_ things would have gone so calamitously wrong otherwise.

The path bent sharply all of a sudden just as they cleared a slope. It took a fair bit of Aegus' mental speed to stay level atop his horse when the animal abruptly changed direction, hooves sliding across the rain-soaked ground. He just hoped Notos didn't lose any horseshoes from this. Rocks and mud did not a great combo make and the path wasn't going to get any less slippery or slop-covered even if it didn't start raining again.

Behind them and hidden by the clouds in the sky, the sun begun to sink below the horizon.

A man suddenly jumped at him from the left roadside hill. The battlecry startled the young adult but a swift duck and backwards headbutt ended with the hollering barbarian crashing in the puddle of filth he'd just charged over. Steering Notos closer to the middle of the too narrow path, Aegus looked quickly around and, upon seeing no other ambushers, closed his eyes and mentally reached out.

Over two dozen horsemen were following them, some gaining on them by cutting straight through the grasslands. Their horse breed was better at traversing bad terrain even if Notos was normally faster. Actually, staying on the road seemed to hinder them more than help. The freak thunderstorm of earlier that day was proving to be a big problem and rain threatened to break again any minute. Forcing back the impulse to swear, the young man narrowed his scope and sent his thought waves straight forward. "Marvelous," he muttered, opening his eyes. "Another tribe's worth of people gathering to cut us off. This is _not_ of the good!"

"Quite so," Lothar deadpanned, then blandly asked, "What are your orders, your highness?"

Aegus glared like he'd never glared at anyone in his life, which did nothing to faze the Immortal. His teacher only got all formal when he thought the young prince-that-wasn't needed a boot to the head for whatever reason. Some of the young man's ire went out in a burst and washed over the many minds in contact with his own. They all twitched or shivered as the wave of anger caused a glimmer of dread to bloom in their hearts, but they kept converging, gathering down-road to cut them off.

Lothar glanced at him then, remonstrating, and Aegus looked away in shame at his lapse of self-control, feeding the damaging emotion to his Soul Flame and clearing his mind. A foreign burst of anticipation made him lean back in his saddle before the attacker's scream even started. The axe that would have gone through his skull hit nothing. He grabbed it by the shaft one-handed and heaved, sending the barbarian crashing in the rocky slush. Thanks to more psychic forewarning, he steered Notos around a thrown spear and sped on. The axe he then threw forward, nailing a third would-be ambusher between the eyes with the butt end of the single-edged blade.

He'd killed before but that didn't mean he wanted to do it often. Especially when _he_ was the one technically trespassing.

He tried to find a silver lining to all this, but he didn't seem to manage. Even as he let his mind settle in a hundred meter-wide blanket around him, he couldn't pick up any hint of the one they were after. And if his telepathic reading didn't get a glimpse of the rider they were in pursuit of, it meant that the rider had already passed unimpeded beyond the upcoming ambush spot, unless he could cloak his presence somehow, which wasn't out of the question. Or he'd been allowed through, though that was unlikely. The rider had left slaughtered, partly eaten, charred bodies and burnt-down villages in his wake, so Aegus couldn't fathom how he could be on good terms with the people of that region. The Shadow Druid sect that held sway in the region likely made it even worse, given their worship of the primal and wild aspect of the world. Even without them, Dardani didn't just work by an eye for an eye, their culture was more along the lines of a limb for a bruise, and things weren't much different once you crossed into any of the other Illyrian tribe states. There was a good reason this was the last place Aegus and Lothar wanted to be, even disregarding the general hatred of all things and people from Macedon and Greece.

To think they'd even left on the journey with the distinct plan and strong advice from Alexander to steer well clear of the region.

It was quite ironic, then, that they were on their fifth day of travel westward along the dividing line between the two allied territories. It didn't help that the one they were pursuing was having a better time of things. The maelstrom of emotion he could glimpse in the distance in those brief moments when he shifted his sight into the astral plane, was causing his anxiety to rise little by little. Fear and anxiety batted against a hunter's relish and greed with enough force for Aegus to sense even from beyond the border of his empathic and telepathic awareness. The feelings of someone their quarry was in pursuit of. Whoever they were chasing was chasing someone in turn. Worse, they were _both_ Immortals.

The grim thought made Aegus lean forward in his saddle and urge his mount forward. "Hia!" The poor horse couldn't go any faster but the token effort helped strengthen Aegus' frazzled nerves. "HIA!" Just a bit.

No more hiding spots for ambushers. Just a little longer and-

_Finally!_

One last bend in the road and they burst into the small stretch of flatlands that preceded the oak forest beyond. He fully expected the large semicircle or scraggly riders cutting their path. What he did not expect was to actually lay eyes on the rider they'd been tailing for so long –no… a _different_ one? What?

_What!?_

Loose white hair, white horse, grey poncho that reached all the way to the knees. Aegus almost gaped from shock when he noticed that in the space occupied by the man it felt to his second sight like there was nothing but air. To see the Dardani line break and allow him passage he expected even less. That they reformed the horse line in order to cut the two of them off was the only part of that situation that made any amount of sense.

Not that it pleased him in any measure.

"Halt!"

Gritting his teeth, the young prince brought his horse to a stop, clutching at the reigns as Notos reared on his hind legs and bled off the speed with a bellowing neigh. Beyond the men that moved to surround them – Dardani and Talaunti both – the other rider swept across the beaten path until he disappeared beyond the trees in the rapidly fading evening light. Thunder rumbled in the sky above but Aegus paid it no mind. What the devil had he just seen? Was there a third rider? Someone chasing the one they were chasing who was also chasing someone else? Were they even chasing the right person? How was it that that white-haired old man escaped his notice?

What in the name of Arulu was going on here!?

"State your names!" A rough voice barked in Illyrian. Well, the Dardanian dialect of Illyrian. It belonged to a horseman who urged his mount forward a few steps.

Aegus frowned and took advantage of his horse's agitated motions to look over the ones that had surrounded them in a single glance. They were all horse riders wearing rough furs and leathers with linen clothing underneath. All had a weapon of some sort in their hands, mostly axes and spears, with some swords here and there. Some had them sheathed and instead held up lit torches. Aegus wondered if they'd hold up in the rain that was rapidly approaching.

But his gaze was again captured by the speaker soon enough, who also wore a bronze breastplate over everything else, dull from use. "I said state your names! Then maybe you can give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you killed right here for the carnage you left behind on my lands!"

His lands?

"Our names are our own," Lothar answered in the same language for the both of them. He'd put himself and his horse between Aegus and the side where two Shadow Druids stood. Why had they come here along with the rest? Were they here from the beginning and only the others were newcomers? Was this their territory? "We're following the one we suspect is responsible for the burnt villages and slaughtered townsfolk."

"That so? And what business is it of yours, _Greek_?" Well, that answered the question of whether or not their armor would expose their land of origin. Seemed linothrax of that quality was pretty distinctive despite the descending darkness, even with their black cloaks concealing large parts.

"It's our business as concerned travelers who came upon the trail all the way back in Lychnidos." That was basically the last big settlement before one reached contested lands separating the Illyrian states from Greece.

But this was _such_ a waste of time. Aegus decided to leave the talking to Lothar and focused on casting his awareness forward as much as he could without making it obvious he wasn't paying attention.

"A likely story!" The thick-set, bearded tribe leader sneered. "Is that why the Holy Man just rushed by alone instead of riding with you who were such a short distance behind?"

Holy man? What?

Lothar was quick on the uptake, fortunately. "If he's as holy as you say then his quarry is likely the same as ours, and the more time we waste here barking the farther away they both get!" And now Aegus knew what his father had meant when he said Lothar had a very particular approach to diplomacy. His approach was no approach.

Then again, the brute talking to them wasn't much better. "Don't take me for a fool, Greek! Not when my druids have already tied you to the disaster you left in your wake!"

That broke Aegus' concentration just as he'd finally extended his mind far enough to pinpoint the presence of the farthest two riders. "Excuse me?" He growled, annoyed at both the implication and the distraction. "How does that even make sense? The last settlement we passed through is just fine!" It was why they were in such a rush. They assumed the rider they chased hadn't had enough time to unleash whatever he'd unleashed on the other settlements.

The tribe leader turned his horse to glare at him contemptibly. "You saying my druids are liars, boy?"

"No." Really, this was something even worse. "I'm saying they're idiots."

The tribesman's outrage was clear to see and there was a pause during which everyone tried to process their shock at hearing such a brazen response. Lothar's exasperation wasn't seen but it was certainly felt.

Really, what druids were they even supposed to be? Even if Shadow Druids were more focused on the animalistic and harsh, ferocious side of the Wild, they still communed with nature and animal spirits. What kind of information could they have gained that they misinterpreted so badly? Unless the spirits just communed feelings and sensations about the people involved in the disaster and the feel given off by the three immortals involved blended together in the druids' minds? Then the druids just kept on the lookout for that sensation or imagery and… jumped… to conclusions…

Well damn.

Strangely, the tribesman that was doing the talking wasn't actually the most outraged at Aegus' response. That title went to a younger man who bore the head rider a significant resemblance, standing with the other horsemen. A son maybe?

Those thoughts completely left Aegus' mind and made room for surprise when he heard the Dardanian chief breathe a soft "No…"

Well, as far as reactions went, he definitely didn't expect _that_.

The bearded tribe leader scowled fiercely and pinned Aegus with a sharp stare, but his disbelief was still plain to see. Motioning towards his younger semi-lookalike – who tossed him his torch – he then spurred his horse forward until he was just a few paces away from Aegus himself. His stare turned into perfect mix of amusement and surprise when he saw the young man's face in the firelight. As if he Aegus' mere existence was the most perplexing thing he'd seen all year. "So it wasn't just the voice that was familiar…" What? "I can't believe it…" The man shook his head once and his eyes were those of a man who'd just learned that the world had played a massive trick at his expense. "I can't believe it… I can't believe it but I'd recognize that smug face anywhere! And those pretentious airs! To think… That bastard actually spawned!"

Eh?

Completely abandoning his failed attempts to psychically reach deeper into the forest, Aegus looked at the man's mind instead. Not too deep, just enough to find a name.

And he found it. "Cleitus…?" What in Tartarus…

"That's 'Your Majesty' to you, brat!" What were the odds? For that matter, what was the King of the Dardanian lands doing running with less than 200 men after the people presumed to have destroyed over a dozen settlements? "Didn't your father teach you how to behave in front of your betters?" That… that really should have sounded insulting and offensive but the man seemed to be on the verge of laughter instead. "Oh, wait…" He grimaced, and Aegus sincerely wished that look of grudging sympathy was a lie. It wasn't. His higher senses revealed the emotion to be real. "I forgot. He died before your mother even threw you out of her belly, didn't he?"

Well…

Cleitus, son of Bardylis, was Aegus' father's first enemy and the only one who ever managed to hold the upper hand against him for any period of time. Even if his forces and those of his ally Glaucias of the Talaunti _were_ eventually defeated, the Balkan expedition against the Illyrian revolt had been one of Alexander's toughest campaigns. Made worse by it being the _first_ real military campaign he ever led. Cleitus had been Alexander the Great's trial by fire. Really, really hot fire.

And now he was just a few paces away.

Well _shit_.

A slew of questions flashed through Aegus' mind, the most glaring of which being why the Dardanian King seemed to be _pleasantly surprised _when it would have made more sense for him to be insulted by his very existence. But the two Immortals they were after were almost beyond his outer senses now.

Oh, to Hades with it! "You know what?" Aegus gave the Dardanian king a deadpan stare. "We really don't have time for this." The Dardanian King's torch went abruptly out.

The moment of startled surprise that followed was brief, but it was all Aegus needed. By the time his hand was reaching for the sky, Aegus had already explained everything to Lothar through a thought wave. Using telepathy to keep their horses docile during what was about to happen was just as simple, and taking hold of the fires of every single torch held by the riders around them was easier than even that. Aegus had created his first flame before he even turned five and, in the years since, he'd advanced _far_.

It was like an explosion, only inward. The fire of every single torch burst in a massive blaze, tongues of flame converging towards the center of the circle. Barely over a second later and the torches were all extinguished, their fire focused in one, bright ball above Aegus' right hand. Then he threw his hand outward and _down_, just as the men around him were crying out in shock.

The flames exploded in a loud, smoldering, blindingly bright flash. It sent the tribesmen's horses into a frenzy, driving them mad with fright. Almost all riders were thrown out of their saddles, yelling and flailing. Those who managed to hold onto their animals failed in their effort moments later, when their beasts of burdens became even more frantic from the impacts of their kin as they ran off in all directions. Cleitus himself crashed on his side right in front of Aegus' horse, groaning from the pain of a jarred shoulder and bruised ribs.

If he were any other kind of person, the young man would have relished the look of shock that Cleitus sent him from where he lay, prone and helpless. But Aegus wasn't such a person, and even if he were he _really_ didn't have time for this. "Hia, Notos! HIA!" His horse leapt forward at his urge, jumping clearly over the fallen king and dashing past the men beyond, their ambush line shattered by temporary blindness and the flight of the spooked animals sent running into the evening just seconds earlier. Even the druids had been completely taken aback by what he'd done and didn't react before both he and his mentor made their escape. But there was still the possibility of pursuers, so Aegus mentally reached back to the sparks still flying through the air. Fire ignited above the men once again, streaks of red, yellow and orange with shades of blue and white. It burst outward in seemingly random patterns, then suddenly spiraled downwards, surrounding the Dardanians in a tall, thick circle of fire. Aegus fed some Vril into the blaze to make sure the fire would last for at least one or two hours.

Then he and Lothar passed the tree line and finally resumed their pursuit via the forest path.

Above them, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled as the clouds finally let the raindrops fall.

That was expected, so Aegus didn't consider it to be something that could influence his mood. What _did_ ruin his mood was when he started to sense the two presences ahead of him even though they had previously passed beyond the range of his active awareness. "Dammit!" That could only mean one thing.

They're started fighting.

Without even looking back or acknowledging Lothar's shout for caution, Aegus linked his mind with his mount's and _ordered_ it to go faster, faster, _faster-_

The horse's gallop speed suddenly doubled, a shrill neigh spurting from its lungs. Aegus could feel the Fire, the flame that could unmake anything, create anything and _change_ anything. He called it in, then he guided it out and then in again, only in his horse this time rather than himself. The animal accelerated even further when that happened, kicking up dirt and mud like never before, hooves hitting hard enough to crack even rocks under their shoes. It was a strain on the young man, especially since he had to keep a steady mind in spite of the annoyance and stress that he'd just been subjected to, however briefly. His focus was further taxed by the fact that he had to keep his palm in contact with Notos' skin and constantly use his healing ability to heal the internal damage and exhaustion inflicted on the noble animal. Any break in his focus and the horse would suffer severe pain and potential long-term or permanent damage, provided the animal didn't fall over dead underneath him outright.

The day had turned to night by then and the clouds overhead only made the darkness deeper. That only meant that the path and the surrounding trees were thrown into sharp relief as they shot by, a horseman and his horse both seemingly made of fire. They weren't, but the Vril was bright in the Astral plane and sweat was coming off the steed in wafts of steam. Enough of the astral light refracted downwards through the material phases to make it seem like both rider and horse were burning.

Rain finally broke for real, then, each drop feeling like hail against their skin, so quickly they moved. Aegus paid them no attention: far ahead of them one of three people died, and night lit with lightning that did not come from the sky.

Really, it seemed that only his failures sounded poetic lately.

"-. .-"

Their decision to turn west had been taken some four months into their journey. They'd left towards North from Darovo and had a fairly easy time of things, with just the occasional bandit band and small issues in need of sorting – a vampire nest here, a demon-summoning warlock there. Between their comfortable but tough linothrax armors and their martial and mystical skills, they had no trouble at all until they reached the first trade port in the Astibus area of Paenonia. In truth, they should not have come upon anything out of the ordinary even there, since as far as villages went Astibus was as average as they came.

Unfortunately, when they arrived it was just a smattering of smoldering ruins. Ruins and remarkably few dead, on account of most of the people having either been (partially) eaten, turned into undead themselves or burned along with the village when the culprit had set it ablaze. That's what they could get from the images and echoes imprinted on the Astral Plane in the aftermath at least. They decided to follow the trail, which brought them deep into Illyrian territory, treading the dividing line between Dardania and Talauntii, the two greatest Illyrian "states." The scene was always the same until they reached Parthini, a settlement that seemed just fine. Reasoning that whoever was responsible had picked up on them following them and made a run for it, Aegus decided to just charge past without stopping (against Lothar's advice) and track them by their astral trail. His choice seemed to have been vindicated just an hour later.

In hindsight, it figured that something would happen to set them back. Now the one they were chasing (an Immortal) had just killed the one _he_ was chasing (also an Immortal). So now Aegus was charging down a forest path in the middle of a dark and stormy night on his _severely_ worn out horse (while being technically on fire) and he'd totally left Lothar behind in his haste without even a by your leave.

The man was going to be _furious_. Lothar was willing to take almost anything Aegus did in stride as long as it wasn't malicious and, more importantly, didn't interfere with his ability to ensure the continued breathing of his "foolish student in the noble art of not falling on his own sword."

With a jerk of his head, the young man dismissed those heavy ponderings. Aegus was just a minute or so away from where the quickening was _still_ wreaking havoc (despite over four minutes having passed since the duel's conclusion) and he couldn't help but wonder what he'd find. He only knew that the third party who was undetectable to his telepathic sweeps must have interfered, and he couldn't be sure how or why, if it was even for the best or the worst. Cleitus might have called whoever it was a "Holy Man," but what Aegus interpreted as "holy" probably didn't align with the idea of "holy" held by people who waged war for greed and pride and chose, as advisors, druids of the type that ritually practiced human sacrifice.

Well, he supposed he'd finally have at least some of his questions answered in short order.

White light spilled through the trees when he finally got close enough, intensely bright to the point where he had to consciously force his pupils to contract as much as they could. His will wrestled with Notos' fear, terror caused by the glare and the bolts of lightning that arched from branch to branch. Aegus almost didn't notice the fallen tree stump, but he mentally commanded his mount to leap over it just in time. The landing was rough, but at Aegus' urging Notos managed to force himself to regain his balance and burst into the clearing.

No… not a clearing.

There was a large space where trees no longer stood, but only because they had been scorched, shattered and cast down and away by the lightning storm raging thunderously in the middle of what used to be a forest road. A _dirt_ road no more than two meters across. Dirt that had turned to mud because of the rain –

Aegus gasped and flailed as his mount collapsed underneath him. Only his well-honed reflexes saved him from hitting his head against a rock jutting out of the mud – mud now smattered with hard patches full of cracks because of the arching electricity and the heat it gave off. Just the one moment when he was taken aback by the sight in front of him had been enough to break off the fragile balance that had enabled the horse to cover the distance from the ambush site to there in a fifth of the time. As Aegus rolled to his side, his first attempt at seeing to his horse was interrupted by a discharge that struck the slurry he'd fallen into. Aegus' cry – more surprise than actual pain at being electrified – was drowned out by the thunder that rung through the heavens, mirroring the racket that was taking place ground-side just twenty meters away from the two of them. Fortunately, he was stubborn enough not to let that deter him, so he managed to lay his palm on Notos' flank just a second later.

He cringed at the state of the poor animal, with strained and torn muscles everywhere, a ruptured tendon on his front left leg, a heart that beat frantically despite the animal being exhausted beyond the point of survival, those were just some of the consequences of the mad dash. As he used his innate healing power yet again, Aegus realized with shame that he had really pushed Notos beyond any reasonable limit this time. Notos wouldn't die – though it was a close thing – and he would even be back in full form eventually, but that was solely owed to the supernatural gifts his father and grandfather had fostered in him. Even if he healed him fully now and called on the Vril to rejuvenate him, the horse would need an hour just to be able to stand back up, such were his energy reserves.

Aegus had to work to hold back a hiss and turned away from the horse he was healing to glare at the spot where his enemy was. Or where he thought he was, given the brightness at the conflagration's core. Even having reduced his eyes' influx of light to the minimum, he still couldn't make out more than the vague outlines of two men near the core of the quickening – because that's what it was. It was the confirmation to his suspicion that there must have been three riders they were following, but that didn't really cast light on any of the events that had brought him and Lothar all the way into the heart of Illyria. He didn't even see the third, no doubt dead, immortal, but there were ways around that. The world was _there_, all the information he wanted was right in front of him. He just needed a better way to perceive everything, especially with the heavy rain making everything so much harder to understand. So he focused and opened his third eye to the first level of reality above, as well as the first below. He almost faltered in his healing efforts from the deluge of sensations but he kept focus with a long, slow breath. The sight in front of him cleared as his focus sharpened, until he could finally _see_.

One man, the rider Aegus couldn't sense before but whose will now seemed to hold the entire area in its immovable grip, stood roughly twenty paces away from a second man, one Aegus hadn't seen before: large, not quite his grandfather's height but taller than anyone else the young man had ever seen, save maybe Lothar, and he was holding a large iron battle axe right-handed. He had his head and face both shaved and he leaned forward like a hulking beast, tattooed face twisted in an ugly snarl as the bolts crashed into and out of him relentlessly. The so-called Holy Man made for a very sharp contrast, standing straight with both hands held out slightly at his sides, practically drawing the lightning into his body against the will of his larger enemy. Since Aegus had turned up to the side of their confrontation he could _see_ his face clearly as well now. The green-eyed, white-haired man had a white beard that reached his chest and was held together by a wooden ringlet near the tip. More importantly, he was _calm_. Aegus was fairly sure that at least a mild glare would have been warranted given the headless female body laid out on the ground just a few paces behind the ugly one.

The sight was remarkable in its intensity. It also answered absolutely _nothing_.

And why in Arulu was the quickening still going on?

Given what Aegus had sensed that made him blow all his chances of diplomacy with Cleitus, Big and Ugly had managed to kill the woman just before the ambush-turned-weird. For the quickening release to last so long…

Aegus did not blink, but he did take a deep breath and expanded his perception throughout all the phases of the material universe, then one level past even that, all the way into the Astral realm for a single instant. He flinched from the blaze that filled his conscious mind – normal quickenings were already bad enough to stare at on that level or higher without a certain amount of preparation, but this was like he'd just looked at the sun after coming out of a pitch-black room. Still, one moment was enough to confirm his assumption: Big and Ugly (Aegus didn't even _try_ to connect his mind to one in the middle of something like _that_, even to find out a name) caught up with the woman and killed her, but the Holy Man arrived just as it happened and… someone interrupted the quickening by… what? Grabbing a hold of her soul with his perispirit? And how did the unseen elemental spirits and – ghosts? _What? –_ hovering around the edges of their insubstantial deadlock figure into it?

Aegus couldn't refrain from making a sound of frustration. Just what in the world had he stumbled into? And why did he feel like he was missing something important?

A quick shift with his higher mind told him that the woman's head was all the way on the other side of the newly made clearing. Since there was too much mud and rain for a beheading strike to have provided enough momentum for a head to roll that far – especially with the roots and mounds in the way – it was clear that it had been tossed or kicked away.

It made the young man glare at the burly killer. Aegus still had no idea who had caused what that had left behind a trail of burnt down villages of half-eaten and burned people – it might even have been the woman – but the stalemate didn't seem like it would be ending any time soon, and if it came down to a choice between a supposed holy man and the snarling beast of a guy who killed the woman and then kicked her head away for no real reason…

Well, it had already been half a minute since Notos collapsed and Aegus, son of Alexander, was done healing him.

He didn't bother trying to prevent his decision from broadcasting through the higher planes. There might have been a shift in attention on the part of the white haired rider, but Aegus barely caught it as he renounced his expanded perception.

Aegus shot to his feet, summoned the Vril between his hands and tossed a white-hot, immensely concentrated fireball straight into the hulking immortal's face.

The blast wrenched straight through the bolts of quickening, only becoming stronger from it and leaving a smoldering trail of blue and gold in its wake, for an instant. It hit the Immortal straight on and exploded with enough force and noise to easily rival a clap of thunder. The rough cry of shock and outrage barely made it to the young man's ears through the tremor as the man was thrown back and to the ground, armor and skin burning and melting. Keeping the flames away from the holy man was easier than Aegus had expected, even taking into account the distance, and the resulting outbreak of fire only gave him more to work with, flames which he took a hold of and guided upward with sweeping arm gestures. Part of the fire surged in a twisting wall of flame, separating the hulking man from everyone else there. Aegus was even treated to the satisfying sound of pain from the angry headhunter as the wall of fire engulfed his right arm before he pulled it out and rolled over and away from the woman's body. The rest of the fire lifted, gathered in the air and took the semblance of a great sun flare, a river of scorching light high above the clearing, great and hot enough that no rain made it through for a few seconds.

The next moment happened so fast that even the best among normal humans would have missed most of it. Aegus only needed a moment to designate a null Vril zone of protection around the dead woman before he brought his raised hand down and sent the sun-hot funnel crashing right on top of the man. Even so, that moment was enough for the situation to shock him, and it wasn't because of the quickening that that finally wrenched itself free of the killer and seemed to hurl towards the unarmed man all at once.

The large immortal snarled at him – a hideous sight through the burnt face and melted left eye – but instead of standing in rage or trying to flee, he hurled himself _forward_, arms grasping for the woman's body.

And the white-haired man turned to Aegus with a shout of alarm. "No, don't-!"

Aegu's fire exploded like thunder for a second time in half as many minutes. Hot air buffeted him hard enough to send his cloak flapping, even heavy with rain as it was. But the flames were still his and the reactions of the two enemies had shaken him enough that he decided not to take any more chances. One hand sweep ignited a second firewall - between him and the so-called holy man who was gathering the quickening in a ball, somehow – while the other hand made a grasping motion. Flames drew together in a thick screen in front of Big and Ugly, only to detonate right in his face for a third time when Aegus clenched his fist. The resulting shockwave was mighty and completely directed in the headhunter's direction. It instantly scorched the wet ground and caused nearby rocks to crack and trees to shatter. More importantly, it sent the immortal flying into the forest with a howl, burnt all over, blind and crippled. That his heart didn't explode from the temperature changes was a minor miracle, but one that Aegus didn't have time to dwell on. There was still one person –

"Oh, to be young and rash!"

What the-?!

Aegus staggered when his fire was wrenched from his control without any perceptible difficulty. In his shock he wavered and slipped on the soft ground, barely avoiding falling face-first into the mud by reaching out with a hand to halt his fall at the last second. He looked up in time to see the unknown man land after having leapt all the way across the battleground, almost _gliding_ to a halt right next to the woman's body where he began to search through her clothes and side bag. That wasn't what stood out most, though. Somehow all of Aegus' fire had disappeared, except for a small ball that the man was using as a light. The sight made the young man swell with such indignation that he didn't even think twice before he reached out to order the small fireball to explode in the stranger's face.

Nothing happened.

It made Aegus experience the first ever flash of fear since leaving home.

On reflex he reached inward and upward through his subtle body, grasping for the Vril-

His attempt was derailed by a Spirit of Fire – one of nature's purifiers, formless and unseen. It curled around him in the higher phases of reality, though he didn't see it. That he could feel it without heightening his awareness meant it was deliberately rendering its presence obvious. Beyond it hovered a Sylph – an air spirit of unspecified form – and beyond _that_ was the grand gestalt of an animal species which he didn't dare try to read into more blatantly than he already was. "O-kaaay…" So he was dealing with a _shaman_. "I get the message." He _might_ be able to summon the Vril fast enough to try and impose his own authority on events, but there was an underlying sensation that the world would back the shaman on this one.

So much for gratitude. He'd broken the stalemate, hadn't he?

"You ruined my intervention, you mean."

Aegus did a double take, but the question of whether or not his mind had been read would never leave his mouth.

There was a sharp, shrill noise from beyond the far tree line, then a bolt of lightning as thick as a house erupted straight upwards from the ground. Aegus jerked as a sudden, massively thick pressure washed over him and the entire surrounding area. The pressure disrupted the coherence of the spirits standing guard over him. They seemingly recovered and converged on the holy man instead, who had shot to his feet and begun to cast his glance between the source of the eruption and his immediate surroundings, still looking for something.

The lightning dispersed but light still shone from the source, cracking audibly through the air despite the rain splatter and rising storm winds. The sound of manic laughter started to make itself distinguished through the din.

"Spirits preserve us," the shaman murmured, glancing bleakly at the dead woman and touching his left hand to his chest. "What were you _doing_, girl, carrying such a thing with you?"

What thing!?

No answer came, but even if the dead headless body could have uttered a sound there wouldn't have been time. An axe coated in lightning felled the closest tree trunk on the far side of the clearing in a single move. The trunk fell aside to reveal the unknown warrior, panting and leaning against the tree just behind it. Electric lights coursed over skin and burst through tears and melted gaps in bronze and leather armor. Every exposed patch of skin was severely burnt, even the face, but the wounds were healing at an alarming rate even by Immortal standards. But what really surprised Aegus into stillness was the jagged knife in the burly immortal's off-hand, buried up to the hilt in his own stomach. Knife he wrenched out with great speed and tossed straight at the shaman's face. Aegus almost didn't see what happened next. The same moment when the holy man shot out a hand – air warped in a funnel ahead of him, rain pushed above and aside as the air and fire spirits merged and burned the intervening atmosphere to nothing – the crazed Immortal shoved his now free hand into his own belly.

No, not free, there was something grasped in it. In any other situation Aegus would have been appreciative of the finger dexterity needed to hold onto whatever it was while tossing a knife at someone, but there was no time for even that.

The shaman's attack blew the knife away and slammed into the immortal, practically detonated on impact, shattering branches and uprooting the trees within ten feet of the crazy warrior. But whatever the man had just stuck into his own guts released a mighty wave of power, filling him and enveloping him in an aura of lightning that healed the massive wounds inflicted upon him by the blast even before the attack was done. The sea of flames that swallowed him in the aftermath did even less than that.

Aegus was surprised he glimpsed enough to understand all that. The aftershocks of the strike reached far enough to throw him off his feet. He rolled away but he didn't dare stand back up in the face of what followed, taking shelter behind a conveniently fallen scrag.

A stagger, then the heavyset man started to laugh even louder. It sounded like someone well beyond any hope of sanity, but somehow he managed to _talk._ "I don't know who you are, spice lover!" How did he even _breathe_ in those flames? "But I know what you're going to be! Dead! Dead just like that cunt at your feet! You're DEAD, YOU HEAR ME?!"

"I hear you just fine." The shaman reached out with his right hand, palm down. "But by all means, yell, shout your useless rage to the heavens! For centuries I have hunted you and yours, and now I will put an end to your mindless rampage, by my will and by the will of the World!" A cane of living ironwood burst up from the ground, two thin boughs wrapped around in each other in a perfect symmetry, hilt stopping against the shaman's grasp. The shaft was barely shorter than the blade of a sword and it was a thin thing, more a cane than a weapon of war. It did not even waver as it stopped the mighty axe blow.

Aegus staggered further backwards and lifted a hand to shield his sight from the glare. He hadn't even seen the crazy bastard move until the shaft of the axe was intercepted. The weapon clash gave off a dazzling burst and there was a noise like that of a gong. The axe handle was made of metal? Rain drops were hurled outward in all direction and it seemed to Aegus' eyes that the two men were in the center of a water sphere, for an instant. Even the thick lightning armor that coated the raving lunatic gave a tremble at the momentum being so suddenly cut.

Aegus found himself hoping the man wouldn't remember he was there. If the crazy bastard decided to go after him, he was _doomed_.

The impact forced both fighters apart, one yelling in enraged disbelief, the other showing focus more intense than anything.

"How did…" The heavyset man growled thickly and clenched his arms even tighter around the shaft of his axe. "I don't know what smoke you've been breathing, old man! But it doesn't matter now! The stone is mine!" The lightning pouring out from and over him seemed to be gaining density and power with every second that passed. What had he stuck into himself that empowered him so absurdly? "The stone is MINE!" Repeating that seemed to give him back whatever surety he'd lost after the earlier exchange. He started to again laugh like the madman he was. "Do you even know who you're facing!? I'm-"

"I know who you are, wretched thing!" The madman snarled at being interrupted, but the speaker was undaunted. "For centuries I've picked up the pieces left in the wake of you and your mad brothers! I know your true name, _Silas!_ I know your legend and I speak only truth when I say that the real thing does not even begin to live up to it, War of the Horsemen!"

What?! He was _who?!_

The Horseman lunged at the shaman with a howl of fury, only to slam face-first into the ground when his leap was cut by vines that sprung from the earth and curled around his legs, stopping him short.

"For centuries I've been the channel of all those you've slaughtered! Always trailing, always healing the land and picking up the tattered peoples you and yours left behind! Doing the will of the dead in service of those that lived." The lightning pouring off the downed immortal started to char and break the vines, so the shaman commanded them to swing him into the tree farthest from Aegus' position. "I gave succor to the destitute, shielded the defenseless, fostered the orphans and taught the illiterate!" The elemental spirits that had been whirling around the man suddenly blasted away, causing a mighty shockwave that staggered the Horseman who had only just managed to get to his feet.

Silas lunged to stand immediately but even he, mad and overcharged with power from whatever he had shoved into himself, was taken aback by the sight that momentarily overtook the shaman, standing erect as he was, cane held up at his shoulder with both hands like a sword.

For an instant the old man's body was superimposed by the image of a majestic priest, body clad in a robe of pure white with a golden sash. As soon as it came, the vision passed, but only to normal sight. The spirit remained, anchored in the Immortal's spiritual axis, bright and glorious to Aegus' second sight. "I am Dyonilius, born in this life as Haraonos Emrys of Ahaggar! I am he whom this land's people have given the name of Holy Man! I have been cleanser, nourisher, protector and healer! And today – today I am JUSTICE!"

With an inarticulate scream, Silas lunged at the shaman again. This time Aegus managed to track his leap, but only because it was so much longer than the first one. But Emrys swung his wooden sword cane and yet again stopped the blow cold with a gong. "How?!" Silas screamed in his face, pushing uselessly against the immovable man. "How are you doing this!?" The Horseman reached up and tried to push the axe head further but even that didn't work. "Damn you! You're dead! You're dead, you hear me?!"

"I am the _vessel_ for the dead, here to bring down judgment on you for all those that you killed and tormented!" His words echoed with those coming from the spirit world as his voice melded with that of the spirit he channeled. "Twice you have unleashed your fury upon me, twice it accomplished nothing!" Silas pulled back and tried another savage overhead strike, but again it was stopped cold, sounding loud and futile through the rainstorm. "Again you accomplish nothing, for my will is the will of hundreds! The will of slaves and peasants, of kings and barbarians! The will of _priests_!"

The revelation dawned in that very moment. The stature, the countenance, the immaculate robes held together by the gold-colored sash at the waist. Aegus stared in astonishment upon finally recognizing the garb of Ahura Mazda's high priesthood.

"Through embodying the will of priests I, too, am become a priest!" The world stalled as the shaman's voice spoke the words of the passed. Passed but not departed. Lightning above joined the mad Immortal's aura in casting light on the scene as Haraonos Emrys spoke the final words of his invocation. "And by my Words I invoke the Will! I Am The One that Holds Each and Every Victory! I Care Not Who Challenges Me, Be They a Beast or a Man or a Devil! All Who Harbor Enmity Will Be Vanquished! I Shall Face All My Enemies, Break All My Foes and Crush All Those Who Stand in My Way, for I Am Strongest Among the Strong!"

A single, sudden, mighty heave was all it took to hurl the horseman of war away. Insanity amplified by mystical empowerment met the full might of the Bull and was found wanting in the face of the second of Verethragna's Ten Incarnations of Victory. The maddened Immortal was catapulted backwards with a scream, through rain and wind and rock and trees, crashing through one after another and another and one more. Trunks were felled in the wake of his flight, wood broke and shattered, groaning as it fell. Such was the force behind the swing that the Horseman of War completely disappeared from sight into the night, yet even then two more trees must have been felled before he came to a stop, given the sounds that reached the clearing from hence.

Aegus stared open-mouthed at what he'd just witnessed. To think he'd come to consider himself a Priest of the Flame only to see something like… like…

"Boy!"

Aegus jerked in place and snapped his eyes towards the shaman, just in time to catch a flying object instead of meeting it with his forehead. Looking at the item, he was surprised to see it was a Goa'uld handheld healing device.

"Can you use one of those?"

Aegus barely managed not to start at the abrupt words and looked up at the man and nodded, before realizing that Emrys _still_ hadn't turned to look at him. "Yes."

"Good, then maybe we can still salvage this." A cursory glance allowed Emrys to spot the woman's head and an outstretched hand made it fly straight into his grasp, tossed up by the earth and carried by a wind funnel. He quickly laid it down next to the body. "Use it to reattach the head."

"What? But-"

"Do it or don't, it's up to you!" Without another word, the man took off through the wide rut that Silas' had dug through the forest.

Aegus gaped. He couldn't help it. It wasn't just the fact that the old man had one of those devices, but also the implications of asking him to use it to reattach the head. What did he expect to do with the intact body? Did he have a sarcophagus too somewhere in that poncho of his? That device didn't even work on Immortals as it should, only restoring the body to life in a vegetative state, since their souls moved on upon the quickening release instead of lingering for three days and nights. Unless he could somehow restore her to life by transferring her soul and… quickening… back into her body somehow…

Holy…! Had he preserved her whole soul somehow?

Without further thought, Aegus rushed to the body and dropped to his knees next to it, then begun to do exactly what Emrys had told him. It was a lot more difficult to do to someone who wasn't alive, but the cells weren't all dead yet and his own healing abilities allowed him extra leeway in his efforts. The only thing that worked against his focus (other than the furious sounds of battle and flashes of light that kept escalating throughout the forest) was the idea of possibly witnessing an honest-to-heavens resurrection in the near future. He knew mentally that there were plenty of immortals who revived on a regular basis, but he hadn't really witnessed a resurrection and even Immortals couldn't recover from a beheading!

For the nth time that night, Aegus asked himself what in Hades he'd gotten into.

Unfortunately, it didn't even take five minutes for the fight to somehow spill back into his immediate surroundings. He'd reattached the spine and surrounding muscles, but the rest of the neck was still a work in progress. One that threatened to be prematurely cut off when a body came flying back from the forest. It wasn't anywhere near him, let alone inbound for his position or anything as contrived as that. But the man smashed back-first into a fallen stump hard enough to leave an imprint and it _wasn't_ the crazy Horseman. Not even half a second later a massive wave of lightning followed his same flight path, as thick as a horse was tall.

Emrys managed to interpose his sword cane and the lightning arc ruptured, spilling in wide streaks and arches in every direction. Aegus had to throw himself to the ground to avoid it, letting the dead body take the brunt of it.

But even so he could somehow hear the shaman speaking. Shouting. "Craven madman! To assault me thus, you truly are a fool!" Peeking over the dead body, Aegus saw the man lower the cane and let the lightning strike and split against his palm. The look on his face was wrathful. "I Am One Who Supports the Heavens and the Spreads Throughout Earth! I Am the One Who Grants Victory and Grace! Mine Is the Authority to Shape the Earth and the Heavens, to Build Great Works and Bring them Down, to Raze the Grisly and Raise the Kind, to Heal the Land, the Seas, the Skies! To Command My Domain I Need Only Invoke the Power, I Need Only Speak the Words that Impose Claim Upon this and All Likewise Manifestations and **So It Shall Be**!"

The massive, unending stream of lightning was hurled straight upwards with a great flash in an instant, thunder sounding on the ground and in the sky alike. Whatever flux was left coming from the maddened horseman was reversed, frying the man's nerves hard enough to make him scream yet again. The physical force was enough to send him crashing into the ground in the very spot where he'd just emerged from the forest. But whatever the shaman had called, whatever godlike will he'd called upon wasn't done. The electrical charge of the storm clouds above came together, fusing with the redirected attack down to its last shreds, then it descended upon the world.

It was as though a sky-high curtain of thunder and lightning descended from above, such was the speed and suddenness with which the string of countless bolts came down in front of Haraonos Emrys, one after another and another covering the distance between the fighters and lighting up the night like the noonday sun. Aegus had to cover his ears and look away from the glare, eyes screwing shut, but even so he was half-blinded by the spectacle. He thought Silas must have howled but he honestly couldn't hear anything but an odd ringing in his skull. Even when he tried to look around through the haze and white spots he couldn't hear anything over it, not the boom of the expanding air, not the thunder just fifty paces away, not the splitting sounds of falling trees nor the crackle of the fires that engulfed so many of them.

He did feel, though, when the waters from the sky descended like buckets from the ruptured clouds, for all the good it did to the blaze. The nature spirits positively sang in exultation at the storm being freed from the madman's influence, however unwitting, though it was tempered by the soft whine of each tree that died.

What the young prince did clearly hear were Emrys' next words, and only because it wasn't his ears he was hearing them with. "Lad, finish the job then get her and yourself as far as possible from here!"

From where he lifted himself to a kneeling position, Aegus watched numbly as the old shaman strode forward then leapt forward to engage the Horseman in a deadly duel once again, matching his brutal savagery with ages-honed skill backed by divine will, if barely. The young man was glad that his father and grandfather had trained him to be able to divide his mind into partitions that let him hold multiple thoughts at once. He barely had enough to process the stupefaction instilled by everything he'd witnessed since Notos collapsed – oh Hades, his horse! – and still have enough left over for mending the neck of the dead woman. That those two monsters continued to exchange impossibly powerful blows and destroy their surroundings with every clash of their weapons didn't help his state of mind at all.

It was too much.

Hades dammit!

With a sound of frustration, Aegus shook himself and wrenched his eyes away from the fight. Even without the distraction of the absurdity behind him the healing was going too slow. Closing his eyes entirely, he forcefully dismissed everything from his mind other than himself, the healing device and the body on the ground. It was hard but he managed it. That done, he carefully positioned the still nearly severed head as close to its proper position as he could and, activating the device in a wide areal beam, aimed his full awareness towards the lethal wound until he saw it clearly and fully, down to every severed sinew, nerve, blood vessel and splinter of bone.

It was enormously difficult and utterly _strange_ to activate his healing power for each cell individually, but the normal approach was unusable here. His technique commanded the body to reflect the ideal form stored within the patient's soul, but here there was no soul to read from. Instead, Aegus looked at the severed nerves, muscle fibers, bones and blood vessels and, after building a mental model of how he decided things should be, grasped with his mind at every single one of the cells and ordered them to behave as the healing device's beam directed, together, _all at once_ so that they reflected his mental construct to the last.

Perhaps it would have been appropriate for the healing feat to be endlessly brighter than normal, to correspond to how boundlessly harder it had been to accomplish. Instead, there was barely a glimmer, one that would have been easy to miss even without the yellow-orange beam covering the space between his two palms, between the one with the device above the throat and the other below. One second, then two then ten, and finally the woman was hale, as far as a dead person could even be considered to be in good health, or any sort of health.

When he came out of his focused trance, however, it became clear that the process or the mental and emotional preparations leading up to it had to have lasted a great deal longer than ten seconds. Minutes at the least. The fires were gone and the farthest edge of the new clearing seemed to be a bit farther away than before, owing to the latest damage inflicted on the area. More importantly, Emrys was just behind him, straining against the berserk horseman, wooden cane faintly trembling against the shaft of the axe whose head was centimeters away from Aegus's right temple.

"Gah!" The sight was so sudden and unexpected, the danger so great that the young prince yelped in fright and reached desperately for the Vril without barely any thought as he scrambled the hell _away_ from that freak and his axe.

Fire, both divine and worldly, exploded out of him every which way. It struck both fighters in equal measures, burning them and throwing them away with kinetic force equal to the shock of a pyromancer waking up to see a maniac trying to split his skull.

Emrys was protected from the elements and even the Vril refused to truly harm him, but the physical impetus was still more than enough to stagger. Silas, however, found himself on fire and rolling uncontrollably until he stopped with his side against a boulder, eight or so meters away. His shouts were equal parts surprised and outraged (had he moved completely beyond pain?) but Aegus barely heard him over the throbbing in his temples, even though his heart settled quickly. It was ironic that he finally saw some positive use out of his warped fight or flight response. Normal people either ran or fought upon experiencing freezing terror, but his reaction to being startled (or in this case scared out of his mind) was to either throw fire at the problem or… well, throw fire at the problem by accident.

Emrys straightened and dug his heels into the ground, apparently deciding to stand sentry between the madman and the younger human. Unless it was something else… Aegus felt rather like he was forgetting something important again.

"Are you daft, lad!? Don't just sit there! I told you to take her and run!"

Right. _That_.

Unfortunately, it was too late for that plan. And not because of the madman or the shaman, even though Silas did charge at Emrys hoping to bisect him with a horizontal slash, or maybe just toss him away in order to get at his other prize.

The insubstantial pressure weighing down the area suddenly multiplied. Aegus couldn't even begin to tell by how much, but it was enough to make Emrys visibly jolt in place and to make Silas stumble to a halt as the world suddenly seemed to press them from all directions. Some kind of instinct made the Horseman actually jump backwards, just in time to avoid being smashed into the ground and maybe cut in two by the man that fell out of the sky like a meteor.

The ground had cratered under the Immortal's feet, mud having dried and cracked under the aura of lightning worn by the man like armor. It was every bit as bright and solid as that of the madman Silas but much more controlled. Wide cracks split from the soles of his feet as the man shot forward. The first swing of his kopis broke Silas' hasty block with a loud clang and was followed immediately by a low slash that would have cut the berserker's legs at the knees if he hadn't jumped. Unfortunately for the Horseman, that only made sure he couldn't avoid Lothar's third swing, a wide and sweeping ascending slice.

He interposed the axe shaft in its path, somehow, but the force was so great that Silas was sent flying high and far, arm broken and axe driven blunt side-first so deep into his torso as to break ribs and crush lungs.

There, as he sat on the ground, Aegus watched dumbstruck as the Horseman of War flew up and away until he disappeared into the distance with a scream that faded into the night well before he even started to fall back towards the ground.

…

He'd completely forgotten about Lothar.

And now, there he was… and barely anything was left alive near him, not counting Emrys and himself. Even the second sight showed that practically every spirit had pulled back from the man, so intense his aura was, quickening blanketing the world. As if all the prior shocks hadn't been enough, Aegus was further stunned when, instead of seeing the man's astral, mental and spiritual bodies, he only perceived a general haze blanketing the entire area, reaching well beyond where his normal sight did in that darkness, even with the light cast by the lightning armor. It let him know just how far the man's insubstantial self had extended. And while Emrys had seamlessly blended with the nature spirits and ghosts of the long dead – momentary images of people or just wisps of souls slipping to and from the hereafter – Lothar had displaced them all, leaving no presence but his own within his range, save for the tree sprites that had curled into themselves, hiding within the tree trunks.

The only exception was Emrys himself and the Zoroastrian Priest spirit he'd communed with. Though that spirit and his own had pulled inward and no longer reached beyond the bounds of his physical body, the man was otherwise unaffected, beyond a sigh of disappointment. "I suppose justice will have to wait a little while longer." The priest's soul begun to fade as the last of the battle frenzy subsided.

Lothar must have heard the murmur but he didn't pay it any mind. Instead, he dismissed his lightning aura and abruptly turned and strode over to where Aegus was still sitting, only to unceremoniously lean forward, grab him by the robe clasp and haul him up until he was in his face. **"Don't ever do that again."**

The young man didn't even get to reply before he was let go and had to stop himself from crumbling back to the ground. He'd gone weak in the knees for some reason. Fortunately, the other man halted his fall by grabbing his shoulders – it was a surprisingly careful hold – and gave him a close once-over. Lothar's face showed clearly that he hadn't expected the rush of weakness but he stayed silent, grip unwavering, only releasing him when he could stand properly on his own. "Don't do that again," the man repeated, more softly.

Aegus almost expected him to say something about having promised his father to keep him safe and sound, but no such thing happened.

Instead, Lothar turned to behold the shaman, sword still out and ready at his side. "I am Lothar Meinrad, born in this life as Menahem of Canaan."

The shaman let his cane rest tip-first against the ground and laid both palms on the hilt, one over the other. "I am Dyonilius, born in this life as Haraonos Emrys of Ahaggar."

Aegus didn't recognize the name of the place and he couldn't tell if Lothar did or didn't. Considering that he was well versed in all known geography, that probably meant the land was beyond the known world or that the name had changed a far in the past. The latter implied that Emrys was immensely old even by Immortal standards. If so, it explained how he could have gained the ability to empower himself beyond all reasonable standards while also acquiring the knowledge and ability needed to preserve a person's soul and resurrect the fallen.

That made the young prince remember his earlier thought, so he looked at the shaman's spirit axis, the vertical line of seven flowers that kept the four lower bodies together. They were pure and brilliant, but he was searching for something specific and he found it: a second soul. The man had actually managed to get a hold of the woman's soul and stored it, not in the Seat of the Soul where his own soul was but in his Heart Flower Wheel, the secret fifth chamber of the heart, the reflection of the physical heart in the subtle body. The quickening shone and pulsed at its core, a brilliant star shining clearly from within the sphere of light.

It made him wonder why the man hadn't moved to revive the woman, however he planned to do it. Aegus should probably ask about her name at some point. "So…" The utterance seemed to dispel some sort of tension. Which was good because even if the fight and the rain had finally stopped, nothing else had really changed. "You think he'll be coming back?"

"Oh, I do believe so." Emrys turned from the unplanned staredown and looked in the direction where Silas had been hurled minutes earlier. "He must return this way if only to retrieve his necromancer sycophant." What's this now? "Not that it will avail him any, I don't think." He met Lothar's eyes again and gave him a small bow of thanks… for some reason. "I admit that I was worried when the young one came upon my battle, fearing that you had somehow not received my message." That feeling that he was missing something came back to Aegus with a vengeance, but the man went on speaking even as he walked over to the dead woman and laid a hand on her chest. The soul slipped through the man's perispirit and settled into the woman with remarkable ease, subtle and physical bodies alike starting to rebuild as the quickening reached out to fill the flesh once more. "But given your method of arrival, I assume you split off and took care of the problem alone in the short time since my passing through Parthini? Though I do have to question the wisdom of letting one so young pursue the higher danger on his own. He is skilled and his power magnificent, but he was not ready for this. In fact, I would have managed to subdue the madman Silas and prevent his acquisition of the Methuselah Stone had it not been for his meddling, however well-meaning."

Methuselah Stone? What was that supposed to be? And what did he mean anyway? The scene Aegus rode in on was clearly a stalemate!

Unfortunately, his indignation was destined to die young. It turned out that Lothar did _not_ appreciate the undeserved criticism. The sarcastic glare he slowly turned on Aegus made that clear.

The youngest of the three intended to speak up with something self-confident, but what really came out was a mumbled "Message?" Dammit, he could barely deal with one stupidly overpowered person staring at him and now there were two of them!

"Excuse me?" Emrys answered in visible disbelief. Aegus felt rather like he'd started events on a path towards possible ruin. The ancient shaman looked positively startled.

Taking pity on the young man, or more likely recognizing the urgency of the situation, Lothar turned back from the prince to address the other Immortal. "We never got any message."

"You've got to be jesting!" Emrys jumped to his feet and stared between the two of them. "I left notes with the innkeeper, the tavern keeper _and_ the stable master! Even paid them handsome gold for their service and to pay messengers to seek you out the day of your arrival if necessary!"

"We didn't stop in Parthini at all. This one –" he pointed at Aegus, and that was just unfair "- decided to charge on the instant he caught the faintest wisps of your astral trail." He frowned and looked to where Silas had disappeared. "Or his, I suppose."

"Now that's going too far!" Aegus snapped at Lothar, angry teacher or not, then rounded on the shaman. "How does that make any sense?" Aegus burst. "This is the first time we meet! And even if that wasn't the case, how would you even know of our coming? It wasn't even you we were chasing! We sure as Hades had no idea we were on the trail of anyone other than whoever or whatever was destroying settlements and killing everyone in them!"

"The spirits told me of pursuers as soon as you were within a week's ride. I could not divine details about you from such distance but I did uncover that your intention in pursuing the trail of destruction was pure. But I could not allow myself any delays, and even haste only enabled me to avert disaster for one village." The man looked at Aegus sternly. "Or delay it, as it turn out."

"This argument isn't helping." Lothar cut in. "We had no way of conceiving that there was a message expecting us, especially since we didn't think there were other people chasing down whatever this is." His next words were to Aegus. "And you, while you have a point about Emrys not being the one we were after, the fact is that Silas, apparently, wasn't either. So!" he turned back to the shaman. "If this Silas only just gained this stone you mentioned, who _did_ cause the destruction we've been following all this time?"

"Oh, if only I'd bothered to scry you again once you drew closer! If I knew you were awakened I would have contacted you through the Spirits. But for the past days I rode nearly without resting, never stepping save to leave the messages back in the village. I would have simply pressed on had the spirits not warned me that Silas had separated from his sycophantic necromancer Ovu Mobani upon sensing the woman and what she carried. I considered it a stroke of good fortune, naively it seems. His new short-term obsession led him away from his force, and with you so close behind it seemed providential that I would chase him down while you dealt with the necromancer. I did not know of your surprising might but my message had his location and the means to track him down and neutralize him without engaging much of his force."

"What force?" Aegus asked.

"What force do you think, lad? Undead! Not just any sort but ghouls, fiendishly strong and some barely different from the living in semblance, if not essence. The first village fell to his band of brigands which he killed afterwards and had Ovu Mobani reanimate, along with whatever bodies of the villagers were left whole enough for his black magic rituals! He did the same to every other village since, burning it to the ground and adding whatever bodies were left to the slowly growing host of corpses."

"But…" Aegus tried to find some sense in that but he couldn't fully manage. And while he rather felt he shouldn't be thinking up ideas for the wicked, his next words _had_ to be said. "But that makes no sense! If he wanted an undead army, why didn't he just kill and raise everyone and burn the empty villages after?"

"Because he's not Death! Nor Pestilence nor Famine! Think, boy! The Horseman of War wreaks destruction right at the border between two different peoples, he slaughters people from both lands while leaving none alive to speak of it and orders his necromancer minion to raise only as many as he'll need to travel quickly and keep doing the same over and over before any runner has a chance to warn anyone. Why would he do that?"

The realization was mind-reeling and the young prince couldn't refrain from cursing. "Hades take him! Aren't the Diadochi providing enough war for his tastes?" The generals and former friends of Aegus' father had well and truly torn the Macedonian Empire to pieces, the young prince thought bitterly. One would think that would be enough war to last everyone several hundred lifetimes.

"Are they? Can a madman's thirst even be sated?" Emrys asked rhetorically.

"But the ploy couldn't have worked," Lothar cut in again. "At least not easily. Dardania and Talaunti are allies."

"And if one king is lured into the open and ambushed? A zombie king would not be much use, but necromancers don't only kill. There are ways to warp and usurp a soul. It would only take one black ritual for a skilled necromancer to dominate a ruler, and Ovu Mobani is among the best of his foul breed. From there, one order and war can break anywhere."

Lothar still smelled a rat. "Then he'd have been better served doing this farther south, along Macedon's northern border."

"How many does he have?"

The nascent debate was derailed by Aegus' question.

"What?" Lothar asked.

Aegus shook himself and tried not to let his trepidation show, with little success. "The necromancer, how many undead does he have?"

Emrys frowned. "Near five hundred by now, spread around the surrounding hills and thickets."

"Pit!" Aegus cursed again. "Shit shit shit! We are in such _trouble!_ Cleitus only has two hundred people with him! Shit!"

"Calm down, lad," Emrys sighed. "I explained the situation to his druids through the spirits as I rode. They would have reached the village by now, which will give us ample time to track down the fiends, or at least most of them before they do anything else."

Aegus opened his mouth, then closed it and stared numbly at the shaman whose benevolent contrivances he'd managed to unfailingly and unknowingly derail over the course of a single day. Every single one of them.

Emrys blinked once, then his eyes widened in horrified realization. "No…" he whispered. "Even you can't possibly have done something to…" For an immortal sage, he was remarkably open with his emotions, and what he felt at that moment was abject disbelief. "Lad… What did you _do?_"

"I didn't… It wasn't-" How the hell was he supposed to tell him that yes, he really _had_ derailed even _that_ last minute escape plan?

"Spirits save me from the carelessness of youth!" The shaman leapt past them and slid to a stop facing the direction where they'd all come from. One downward jab of his cane lit a fuel-less bonfire right in front of him.

Even without his senses wide open Aegus could sense the fire spirit in it. Sense also the air sylph as it surrounded the shaman and expanded upward and forward, stretching over the distance between where they were and the forest's edge. It would have been enrapturing and educational, to see a shaman use the awareness of the wind and the fire to gain far sight and scry distant places.

Unfortunately, the words that left Emrys' mouth upon seeing whatever he saw on the other end were _far_ from complimentary. "Oh, to be young and _foolish!_" It would have been the perfect opening for a cry of denial or whatever other reaction, even for Aegus to wince in embarrassment, but the old shaman didn't give him the time. "In the Name of the Great Mother from whom Life Springs Eternal, I Command! Come forth, Totem of the Charge!"

A loud neigh split the silence of the night and, seconds later, a mighty white stallion emerged from the woods, gracefully coming to a halt next to the one who'd called him. Aegus barely had time to wonder if it was really a manifestation of the Totem of The Horse before the white-haired immortal pulled himself on the back of the animal.

Emrys treated Aegus to a look of exasperation and not at all hidden admonishment but turned to address Lothar instead. "It seems that the undead are converging upon the King's party from every side and Ovu Mobani is not with them, heading for the village instead. I'll have to cut through the wood and hills to overtake him. I trust I don't need to tell you to make haste." Without that final word, he was off.

Aegus had no idea how to feel at that moment. His thoughts were going every which way and his emotions were a confused snarl of embarrassment, irony, morbid amusement at the absurdity of the situation and a bitter mix of shame and self-recrimination over having essentially caused that entire mess. The thought came to him that this could still be all his father's fault for basically creating Murphy, but it didn't last in the face of everything else he thought and felt. Gods… he hadn't actually expected for his travels to go without any complications, and even here it wasn't _all_ on him but he never even considered that he could possibly achieve such a perfect record in completely misreading situations. Repeatedly. Without fail or interruption.

What happened next showed him that yes: he really _could_ achieve such a perfect record. Achieve and maintain it. For Lothar wrapped an arm around him, making Aegus think he was providing comfort.

He wasn't.

"Yelp!" Aegus yelped, _literally_ yelped as the older and larger man heaved him under his arm from around the middle like a sack of turnips. What was he-?

"Do hold on, hmm?" Aegus froze. He couldn't be! "This might get a little windy." Spending just a second hoisting the soon-to-be-no-longer-dead-woman over his shoulder, Lothar bent his knees and, with quickening surging out of him to wrap around him and both people he was carrying, shot into the air so fast that Aegus scream of fright had to work hard to catch up.

And he'd actually thought that the man was about to show _compassion_, the bastard.

The rain had stopped but the clouds had yet to pass, so the night was dark, both under and above. They must have been in the air for over a minute before there was a light. There, down below. A light that seemed to get closer – oh shit! His circle of fire!

Aegus barely had a few seconds to take in the situation – men fighting for their lives in a circle against a horde of ghouls, inhumanly strong and ravenous, heedless of the wall of fire they were pushing through, even as it lit them up – before Lothar smashed feet-first right in the middle. A great wave of force erupted from his feet, shaking the earth and throwing everyone to the ground, dead and living. Lothar unceremoniously dumped his charge and his dead load and, after slamming a palm into the earth that somehow propelled only the bodies of the undead up into the air, spun on his heel for one, full circle, right arm outstretched and fingers splayed.

What happened next… Aegus had never seen it before or even heard it spoken about. For one second it seemed like time staggered, though it might only have been due to the lingering connection to the quickening that let his mind speed up enough. The Immortal's lightning aura didn't so much burst outward as it coursed in concentric circuits, each wider than the first, spreading wider and wider in curved segments and lines. Lightning whirled in concentric circles and radiated outward in right angles, twelve times multiplied by twelve hundred. The arcs passed above the men and missed those that had yet to fall or who were far enough from Lothar's landing spot not to be knocked completely off balance. But the lightning missed not one of the undead creatures. From where Aegus lay on the ground it looked a lot like a web, but one that only ensnared what its maker wanted to ensnare.

The still painting of the world suddenly resumed motion with the explosive incineration of every single undead within the bounds of the circular wall of flames, as well as all ghouls a dozen yards beyond it in every direction. They didn't have time to scream, if they even could, but the sharp noise of thousands of birds would have drowned the noise out regardless. Nearby, King Cleitus and his son lay on the ground and stared open-mouthed at the lightning-covered man as he stood in the center of that completely insane display of power.

It figured that Lothar would control their landing so that Aegus ended up in the most awkward spot and position possible. If that wasn't evidence that he was still rather aggravated at Aegus leaving him behind without even a by your leave, nothing was.

But there were more undead closing in and Lothar knew it as well as he did.

The immortal pulled out his sword for the second time that night, brandished it three times and jumped high and far enough to completely clear the wall of fire and land well on the other side where he proceeded to engage the undead abominations with a positively inspired level of brutality, though only Aegus could see it, even if it wasn't with his eyes.

Aegus, son of Alexander, slowly sat up and considered the option of grabbing that wall of fire and sending it spiraling out to incinerate everything moving in the night.

He reviewed everything he'd "accomplished" over the past day and gave it up as a bad job. With how things were going, odds were good he'd start a forest fire or something. Nevermind that he could control and snuff out any flame, his recent track record suggested it could still happen. Having come to that realization, the young man promptly laid back on the ground, resting his head on his arm. The Dardanian warriors had mostly climbed back to their feet by then and were ganging up on the occasional ghoul and zombie that managed to get past Lothar (somehow) and didn't meet their end in the one meter-thick wall of flames. A quick sweep with his higher mind let the prince know that none of them were in danger of dying, though some had some wounds serious or many enough that they took the chance to sit down and rest.

One of them was the king himself, who hadn't even bothered to stand all the way up after Lothar's dynamic entry. He was just next to where Aegus was lying actually, with one foot under him and sword resting horizontally in his lap. His armor was scratched and dented and his furs torn everywhere, exposing skin and even raw flesh where he hadn't managed to avoid the bites of those wretched things. His left shoulder was missing part of the trapezius muscle – a crippling wound that would cost him most of the mobility of that arm – and his left eye was closed shut. It had been gouged out. There were three claw marks running over it, from forehead to the neck, thick with coagulated blood.

There were many things the prince-that-wasn't would have expected the man to say or do, but none of them happened. Cleitus just stared at him, remaining eye barely blinking.

Aegus reached out with his right hand – there was movement on his other side but the king's son didn't have time to do anything – until his fingers touched the man's forearm.

Flesh knit, the eye regrew in full, bones set, blood dried and flaked off and new skin grew where every injury was a moment earlier. Even the scars disappeared, leaving the body unblemished for the blue-gold shimmer of healing to pass over. There had been some bruises besides the wounds that Aegus' cursory glance had noted, and Cleitus also suffered from a limp due to an old knee wound from his youth. No matter, he was all better now.

The young man let his arm drop back to the ground, glanced to the other side to see if the woman had revived yet – she hadn't and he really should find out her name somehow – before he let his sight drift upwards again. The clouds had finally begun to part, allowing the stars and moonlight to slip past. It wasn't full but the moon was beautiful all the same.

He didn't care enough to look or otherwise examine Cleitus' reaction at being healed and how it was done. When the king finally spoke, though, Aegus _had_ to look at him. That tone couldn't possibly be his natural reaction to everything that had just happened. _It couldn't_.

"Bad day?" Cleitus deadpanned.

Huh. He stood corrected. Or lied. Whatever. "Yep."

"I bet mine was worse."

Aegus, son of Alexander, stared at Cleitus, son of Bardylis and decided to respond with total honesty. "No. It really wasn't."


End file.
